Discussion Boards
Question 1: Harris names his chapter “Forwarding”. Define this term and what you think it means in terms of academic writing and “entering the conversation.”
Question 2: Do you think Kantz’s ideas will change your own approach to doing research and writing with sources? If so, how?
Question 3: Swales CARS model is meant to help you find your way into the academic conversation. What do you think this means and how can you use his model to help in your academic work?
Forwordinv
The painter’s products stand before us as though they were still
alive, but if you question them, they maintain a most majestic si-
lence. It is the same with written words; they seem to talk to you a.s
if they were intelligent, but if you ask them anything about what
they say, from a desire to be instructed, they go on telling you just
the same thing forever.
-Plato, Phaedrus
The dead, thing-like text has potentials far outdistancing those of
the simply spoken word.
-Walter Ong, “Writing Is a Technology
That Restructures Thought»
Academic writing is often described as a kind of conversation. Youread a text, you talk about it, you put down some thoughts in re-sponse, others respond to your comments, and so on. Or as the
poet, novelist, philosopher, and critic Kenneth Burke once put it:
Imagine that you enter a parlor. You come late. When you arrive, others
have long preceded you, and they are engaged in a heated discussion,
a discussion too heated for them to pause and tell you exactly what it
is about. In fact, the discussion has begun long before any of them got
there, so that no one present is qualified to retrace for you all the steps
that had gone on before. You listen for a while, until you decide that
you have caught the tenor of the argument; then you pu.t in your oar.
Someone answers; you answer him; another comes to your defense;
34
()IIH.’rs have drawn on this
hnr to imagine the various
ipliues and professions as being, in effect, different sorts of conversa-
each with its own rules of evidence and etiquette. In this view, to be-
,I lawyer, a historian, a biologist, or a social worker, you need to learn
think and talk like a lawyer, a historian, a biologist, or a social worker.
ing a subject means acquiring a discourse, not just mastering a body
knowledge. As another teacher of academic writing, David Bartholomae,
1IIlOIIwt ,lIign~ hirnsell against
YOIl, III either the embarrussmcnt
III ~t .uification of your opponent,
depending Oil the quality of your
IIlIy’.~ assistance. The hour grows
lute, you must depart. And you
,10 depart, with the discussion
“till vigorously in progress.
Intertexts
Kenneth Burke, The Philosophy of
Uterary Form: Studies in Symbolic
Action (Berkel~y: University of
California Press, 1973)”,Q-l1.
David Bartholomae, “Inventing
the University,” in When A Writer
. Can’t Write, ed. Mike Rose (New
York: Guilford, 1985), 134.
lwery time a student sits down to write for us, he has to invent the uni-
versity for the occasion-invent the university, that is, or a branch of it,
like history or anthropology or economics or English. The student has
to Icarn to speak our language, to speak as we do, to try on the peculiar
ways of knowing, selecting, evaluating, reporting, concluding, and ar-
guing that define the discourse of our community.
This metaphor of writing as
unvcrsation has several strengths.
II highlights the social aspects of
intellectual work, the ways in which
‘~’ldct11ic writing responds to the
texts und ideas of others. It suggests
tiM! the goal of such writing is not
10 h,IVC the final word on a subject,
ttl bring the discussion to a close,
hilI 10 push it forward, to say some-
thing new, something that seems to
In this sense, the passage I’ve quot-
ed failsto suggest the larg~r aim
of BIJrkers writitllg, which was to
theorize a “rhetoric of courtship,”
a discourse that strives for agree-
ment rather than confrontation,
identification ratner than division.
SeeKenneth Burke, A Rhetoric of
Motives (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1969).
call for further talk and writing. And despite Burke’s somewhat militaristic
talk of allies and opponents, the metaphor also hints at the more civil tone
of much academic work. A dialogue is not a debate. You don’t win a con-
versation, you add to it, push it ahead, keep it going, “put your oar in:’ and
maybe even sometimes redirect or divert the flow of talk. But you rarely win
over a person you are speaking with by first refuting what she or he has just
said. The arts of conversation are subtler than those of debate; they join our
need to articulate the differences among us with our need to keep talking
with one another.
But if academic writing is a conversation, then it is one of a curious and
asymmetrical sort. For academics rarely write to the persons whose work
they are writing about. If you are assigned in a class, for instance, to respond
to a play by Shakespeare, you don’t expect its author to write you back. Your
writing is instead directed at other readers of the play. In quoting Shake-
speare, then, you are less entering into conversation with him (whoever he
may have been) than with fellow readers of his work (wherever they may
now be). You are recirculating his writing, highlighting parts of his text for
the consideration of others. And I’d argue that this is the case for most aca-
demic writing-that it does not reply to the texts it cites so much as forward
passages and ideas from them.
Another way to put this might
be to say that academic writing is
almost always intended to persuade
a third reader. One scholar will
IhferteXt; ,
IIWhen it: has on~ebeen ,writt~n
down, every discou,rse reiHsabtiut
everywhere, re~ching lndlscriml-
n~tely those Withunderstahding no
less than those who have no busi-
ness with it, and it doesn’t know
to whom it should speak and to
whom it should not. And when it
is faulted and attacked unfairly, it
‘always needs its fathers support
alone, it can neither defend· itself
nor come to il,’S own SUpp0rt.”
,Plato, Phaedrus~tr~n~. ALexi;\n-
‘der Nehamas an~ PaulY\4Dddruff
(Indianapolis:,Hackett; ,199S)i e1
(275E).
\(, NI’I\ Iltllll{” IIIII\, tl) 1)1) lillIl}I’ Ivitll 1t’\I’
criticize the work of another less in
the hope of having her rival recant
than in persuading other readers
to see the good sense of her (rather
than his) views. Even an indignant
author writing to protest a wrong-
headed review of his latest book ad-
dresses his letter “To the Editor.” If
you reply to an email post you have
received, yOIJare engaging in a pri-
vate correspondence. If YOLl forward
that post (or part of it) to another set of readers, along with your comments
on it, you have begun a more public exchange. In the email program I use,
these two functions are illustrated by opposing arrows: reply (+-) sends
your comments back to the sender; forward (-+) directs them outward to
other readers. And these forwards can themselves be forwarded, to some-
times unexpected sites and publics-as anyone who has ever written an
email post that seemed to take on a life of its own, found its way to unin-
tended readers, can testify. The power of the Internet to make texts acces-
albic comes with a cost, as you not only gain readers for a text but also lose
ontrol of its uses once you send it forward into the public sphere. (This was
precisely the worry about writing voiced centuries ago by the philosopher
Pll1l0-tl1at texts can become “fatherless;’ detached from their authors and
rpreted recklessly.) Much of academic discourse thus tends to proceed
as writers take ideas and phrases from what they have read and
se them in approaching a different set of issues and texts.
As T write this book, for instance, I am sitting in a small room, before
laptop computer, surrounded by books, papers, and magazines-all of
lit r am, in some metaphorical sense, “in conversation with” (in much
same way I am also in conversation with you, my imagined reader).
l what Iam actually doing is working with a set of materials-looking
hooks on my shelves and flipping through them, folding pages over or
rking them with Post-its, retyping passages, filing and retrieving print-
and photocopies, making notes in margins and on index cards, and,
course, composing, cutting, pasting, formatting, revising, and printing
ks of prose. I am, that is, for the most part, moving bits of text and paper
lid. l don’t want to lose the metaphor of conversation entirely-writ-
IS in a very real way a process of trying to say something to somebody.
.1 text is also an artifact; it is not only something you say but something
IIIlIke. And so, even when your goal in writing is to enter into a kind
conversation about a subject, to form your own response to what others
h,ld to say about it, the question remains of how to construct or as-
,hll’ Ihat response.
I\~ I lise the term, a writer forwards a text by taking words, images, or
H Irum it and putting them to use in new contexts. In forwarding a
, )’011 test the Sl rength of its insights and the range and flexibility of
111/11,,,,(1/1111 \7
its phrasings. You rewrite it through reusing some of its key concepts and
phrasings. In this chapter, I will focus on rewriting in the spirit of the texts
you are reading, of applying and extending their ideas and phrasings. And
then, in the next chapter, I will look at more skeptical forms of rewriting, of
bringing texts forward for criticism and counterstatement. But let me em-
phasize that this order is not in any way fixed-there is no need, that is, to
always try to find something nice to say about a text before criticizing it. You
might instead think of these two chapters as building on the moves Iout-
lined in the previous chapter on coming to terms. In forwarding a text, you
extend its uses; in countering a text, you note its limits. These two moves
often double upon one another: In applying a text to new situations, that
is, you are likely to also end up revising some of its key words and concepts,
much as in countering the stance or phrasings of a text, you may well begin
to see how some of its aims might be better realized.
Projects
Conversing in Writing
Find a listserv or blog whose topics interest you. Spend
a few days following the exchanges on it. Note down those
moments at which the members of the list or board really
seem t.obe “conversing in writing” with each other, and also
note points where they seem to be doing something else
(forwarding, flaming, digressing, whatever). How useful is
the metaphor of conversation in describing the exchanges
you’ve observed? What does the metaphor distort or fail to
describe?
In forwarding a text, you begin to shift the focus of your readers away
from what its author has to say and toward your own project. Writers often
describe themselves as drawing on or mining other texts for ideas and ex-
amples, but extracting such materials is only part of the job. You then need
to shape them to your own purposes in writing. There are at least four ways
of doing so:
.18 Nf”wliling: Ilow In no Ihinll’ with I(‘~h
JIIII.,tmtillg: When you look 10 other texts for examples of a point
you want to make.
Authorizing: When you invoke the expertise or status of another
writer to support your thinking.
Borrowing: When you draw on terms or ideas from oilier writers
to use in thinking through your subject.
Extending: When you put your own spin on the terms or con-
cepts that you take from other texts.
Illustrating provides you with material to think about: anecdotes, im-
scenarios, data. Authorizing, borrowing, and extending are ways of
ing things in oilier texts to think with: keywords, concepts, approaches,
ries, I will discuss each of these four moves in more detail below. Re-
her, though, that when you forward an idea or passage from another
you need not simply to cite but to use it. If you look to another text for
example, you need to make it an example of what you have to say. If you
” term from another writer, you need to show what you take it to mean
how it contributes to what you are arguing.
IIIIHfor school often starts with an assigned text: A teacher hands you a
or essay to read and tells you to write an essay about it.But this isn’t
or perhaps even usually-how intellectual work begins. The impe-
1111 many projects lies instead not in a specific text but in a question or
III issue that a writer wants to explore. (There are exceptions, of course:
,k reviews, studies of particular authors, etc.) Such work often begins
Muncthing closer to a hunch than a thesis. Youmight, for instance, no-
how cell phones or email can sometimes seem to distance people from
1II111ther as much as connect them, or how some advertisements seem to
III Itt’ 1I0tso much a product as an experience or sensibility. But to write
lUi .. Ill h questions, you need to find some texts that can help you focus
I hunch, formulate the issue more precisely. You need some texts, that
I.. lI~l’ in thinking about your subject.
A h-w years ago, I was involved in editing a book of essays on the uses
I pllplIllIl’ culture in everyday life. In doing so, Twas struck by how many
Ill/w,nr/i!IH ,W
critics began their essays hy n’
counting a particu lar scene or iIII
age from a movie, TV show, 01
advertisement. Here, for instance,
is how Todd Gitlin starts his piece,
“We Build Excitement”:
Intertexts
Todd Gitlin, “W~Build Excite-
ment,” in Wa,tch,i1J.8Televis;0.a, ed.
Todd Gitlin (N~York: Pantbeon,
198p); reprinted inJosephHarris,”
Jay Rosen, and (iary Calpas/ eds.,
MedJa lournal: Reading and Writ-
ing about Popular Culture, 2hd ed.
,(Boston: Allyn & Bacon, 1999),
378~80.
An electronic throb comes
across the screen. Through
a blue-black, haze-shroud-
ed night city wanders the
solitary figure of a young
blond man. He is handsome in a blank way, expressionless, almost
robotic. The city is deserted. In this science-fictional future, the man
has left the present, society, the clutter of other people behind. Is he
liberated? Troubled? The electronic pulse continues. Vapors hover in
the street, catching the light The man stalks through evacuated streets,
seeking signs of life. Suddenly, he spins around as if startled by a sound.
Overhead looms a billboard depicting-what posthistoric icon of the
age? The new Dodge. The sight fills him with awe. The car slides off the
billboard and out into the world. It has a life of its own; indeed, more
life than his own. It pursues him, calls him, teases him; the car is the ac-
tive agent. The two of them are alone in this vacated kingdom; he might
be the last man in the world. Now he turns and goes after the Dodge,
which gives him the slip. He follows it down a narrow street, but it’s
gone. And then, with the abruptness of a jump cut, he finds himself in
the driver’s seat. His blankness fades; it is a satisfied go-getter who now
turns to us and grins. Instantly dystopia segues into utopia. Accepting
the challenge ofhypernew technology, the driver bas earned his place in
the proverbial fast lane. The car then accelerates at Star Wars—like warp
velocity and takes off into ethereal hyperspace. “Dodge;’ says the closing
logo after a breathless thirty seconds, “An American Revolution.”
This is a remarkable passage. Beginning with the visual image of the
“electronic throb … across the screen,” Gitlin intrudes on our conscious-
ness much as the Dodge commercial does: suddenly and assertively. His
short sentences evoke a sense of speed and fragmentation in tandem with
a set of neologisms (haze-shrouded, posthistoric, hypernew) that hint at the
futuristic feel of the thirty-second spot he is describing. His prose thus
40 Rewriting: How to Do Things with Texts
nds 1IlIIIW of lilt.’ purticulur lh.\lIellgl’s of writ ing about non print me-
ic h is the need to rc- present the texts you discuss, to translate them
language that begins to evoke the experience of viewing or listening
111. You can’t reproduce a television ad or a movie scene on the page
way you can recopy the words of a print text. Quoting the lyrics of a
doesn’t always get at how it feels to hear it performed, and describing
subject of a photograph or painting can only begin to suggest its total
as an image. Even the ability to scan or embed audio and visual files
til’dronic documents fails to solve this problem completely-although
make writing about such texts more rigorous and interesting-since
order to comment on an aspect of an image or performance you still
somehow to put it in words.
In some ways, the difficulty of quoting nonprint media highlights the
Iproblem of dealing with the texts of others: You need somehow to
t heir work yours. Faced with the impossibility of rendering the whole
Am image or performance in words, you can only instead point to what
see as its key moments or features. That is to say, in describing a movie
song or ad, you need to interpret as you describe, to re-present the text in
wily that shows how it illustrates the point you want to argue. A few more
phs into his essay, for instance, Gitlin’s motives in describing the
isement for Dodge start to become dear:
Altogether this style of urgent and displaced velocity represented ~e
most striking innovation in the automotive sales pitch of the mid-
eighties. All the fancy-free varieties of the high-tech format bore the
implication the car today is the carrier of adrenal energies, a sort of
syringe on wheels. “We Build Excitement;’ in the words of Ponti~c)s
slogan. The form of the commercial built a particular brand of excite-
ment. In the case of the futuristic Dodge, the relentless flickering pace,
the high-gloss platinum look, the glacially blue coloration, the dark ice
haze, the metallic music innocent of wood and strings-all suggested
something otherworldly and ungrounded …. The aggregate message
was not about cars alone, but about the current incarnations of Amer-
ica’s perennial dreams: freedom, power, technology.
Gitlin suggests that car ads do not sell simply cars but also an ideology
that prizes independence to the point of isolation, that links technology to
rOlw,lrclinfj 41
a kind of cowboy masculinity. The aim of the Dodge ad is to make: the view
er feel that Pontiac’s cars are somehow more virile, edgy, and stylish than
those of its competitors; Gitlin’s aim is to connect this pitch to an American
ethic that links violence to progress. And so many of his phrasings look two
ways, toward both the advertisement and his reading of it. He describes the
protagonist as both “handsome” and “robotic,” “troubled” and “liberated,”
“awed” and yet, by the end of the spot, satisfied, grinning, “in the driver’s
seat.” The streets are “evacuated” and yet, in an ethereal and blue-black way,
alluring, vaporous, pulsing. And the car is the “active agent,” teasing, pursu-
ing, hypernew, transforming. In Gitlin’s description, that is, the Dodge ad
comes to reflect the “urgent and displaced velocity” of our culture.
What Gitlin has done is to give himself and his readers an example to
use in thinking through some ideas about our common culture. The Dodge
ad, that is, now serves a point that he is making. The aim of his writing is
less to understand the commercial on its own terms than to use it as a way
of getting at a larger issue in our culture. The text is not the object of his
analysis so much as a tool for his thinking.
None of this is to suggest that you should be anything less than scru-
pulous in dealing with texts that you bring forward as illustrations in your
writing. In formal academic writing, you need to cite nonprint media
along with print texts-usually noting the site and date of a performance
or broadcast, or when and how you accessed a website. Never work from
memory alone. Always have copies of any texts you discuss at hand: not
only books and magazines but videotapes, audiotapes, CDs, DVDs, MP3s,
scripts, lyric sheets, printouts, Xeroxes, postcards, photographs, and so on.
Take notes on interviews and events.
If you can, try to reproduce some
part of the texts you discuss in your
writing. (It is easy enough to scan
images into a text or even simply to
paste in photos or Xeroxes, and it is
quickly becoming more practicable
to insert audio and visual files into
electronic docurnents.) Save all the
texts you write about, especially any
Intertexts
Most research handbooks now
include guides to citing nonprint
media. Janice R. Walker and Todd
Taylor’sColumbia Guide to Online
Style (NewYork:Columbia Univer-
sity Press, 1998) is especially help-
ful in offering notonlyrules 2ut
working principles for dO,sufQent-
ing texts in vario\,!$meqJa,
t, ”
42 Rewriting: /-fow to Do Things with Texts
u”.dns IIli~hl h.ivc dilltlltlIH’~ .Il\t’ssill~ (III Ilwit OWII (wch links gel
1I”d down or chungccl, TV pr0l-\r.lIl1S go off air, song lyrics can be: linin
lIt(ihll·).The: more confidence: your readers have in your descriptions of
texts, the more they are also likely to credit your uses and interpreta-
of Ihem.
(iiilin models a use of forwarding as a kind of opening move, a way
u subject. While this sort of move is not always made at the start of an
or book, it does tend to mark hinge points in a text, moments where
wrill’r is moving from one line of thought to another. Sometimes a writer
usc a series of forwarded passages to stand for the key moves of a piece,
ollcr a kind of outline of it through images and examples. For instance,
the opening chapter of his book On Literacy, Robert Pattison defines lit-
y us involving not simply a mechanical mastery of the skills of reading
writing but also “a consciousness of the uses of languages.” The liter-
person, Pattison suggests, realizes that words never simply describe the
but rather always offer a particular view of it, and thus that we can
language to shape beliefs and events-for both good and ill. He then
that this awareness of the power of words to influence action is
so fundamental that we maywonder if it is possible to behuman with-
out it. Three instances of this basic sort of illiteracycome to mind: the
WildBoyof Aveyron,GracieAllen, and Homer’s Agamemnon.
Pattison then structures the rest of his chapter around these three ex-
les of illiteracy. The Wild Boy, as portrayed in Francois Truffaut’s film,
I. someone who has grown up without ever learning to use language at all;
the comedienne Gracie Allen, in her radio skits with Fred Burns, is a person
Who understands only the literal meaning of words, who never gets the joke
or the pun; and Agamemnon, the leader of the Greek campaign against
Ii-oyin the Iliad, is a blustering bureaucrat who follows all the rules without
question or criticism. While his argument is too involved to restate in detail,
I think you can see how Pattison
Intertexts
Robert Pattison,On Literacy (New
York: Oxford University,Pr~ss,
1982), 5-18.
\l1Il’S these examples to suggest the
progress of his thought-moving
from examples of individuals with
110 language to mistaken language
Forwarding 43
to a competent but limited language. The Wild Boy,Gracie, and Agumcm
non serve as markers of his ideas, steps in his argument, ways of thinking
about his subject.
Authorizing
But texts are sources of terms and ideas as well as images and examples. A
defining move of critical writing is the turn to another text for a key word
or concept. Sometimes this occurs as a quick appeal to another writer as
a voice of authority. For instance, in “Sex, Lies, and Advertising;’ Gloria
Steinem invokes the views of an industry expert to support her claim that
advertisers often exert an undue influence on the editorial content of the
articles in women’s magazines:
Do you think, as Ionce did, that advertisers make decisions based on
solid research? Well, think again. «Broadly speaking;’ says Joseph Smith
of Octoby-Smith, Inc., a consumer research firm, “there is no persua-
sive evidence that the editorial context of an ad matters.
There is real wit to this brief citation, as Steinem in effect calls on her
opponents in the advertising world to make her point for her. (Her essay was
written to explain and defend the politically brave but economically risky
decision of Ms. magazine to no longer accept advertising.) But Steinem’s
appeal to authority here is essentially the same as that made in the “review
of the literature” sections of many academic essays and books, where we
are diligently told “what research shows” or “what critics have observed”
or the like. This sort of move is often necessary to make, if only to prove
that you’ve done your homework, but it seems to me, for the most part, to
be a straightforward and routine form of intellectual housekeeping. The
best advice Ican offer, then, is to follow Steinem’s lead in making such ap-
peals as succinct and pointed as you
can. (Often they can be relegated to
footnotes.)
Intertexts
Borrowing
You can call on other texts not sim-
ply to support but to advance your
Gloria StE?inem/ IlSex, Lies, and
Advertising,” Ms., July-August
1990, 18-28; ~el?rintedi~ Harris,
Rosen/and Ga[pas, Me6iia 10ur:n~/)
436-55.
44 Rewriting: How to Do Things with Texts
work ,III writer throllgh I/O/l’O!VIIlg .1 krill Of idea from another writer to
UAt’ in thinking through your subject. For instance, in Amusing Ourselves to
Dc'”,II, Neil Postman argues that we have shifted from a print- to a televi-
lun based culture, and in doing so have also begun to privilege entertain-
ment and diversion over analysis. To explain what he feels is the dominant
roll’ that TV plays in our lives, Postman both contrasts it to another tech-
nology and draws on the work of a quite different writer and thinker:
In the past few years, we have been learning that the computer is the
technology of the future. We are told that our children will fail in
school and be left behind in life if they are not “computer literate.” We
are told that We cannot run our businesses, or compile our shopping
lists, or keep our checkbooks tidy unless we own a computer. Perhaps
some of this is true. But the most important fact about computers and
what they mean to our lives is that we learn about all this from televi-
sion. Television has achieved the status of a “meta-medium”-an in-
strument that directs not only our knowledge of the world but our
knowledge of ways of knowing as well.
At the same time, television has achieved the status of “myth;’ as
Roland Barthes uses the word. He means by myth a way of understand-
ing the world that is not problematic, that we are not fully conscious
of, that seems, in a word, natural. A myth is a way of thinking so deeply
embedded in our consciousness that it is invisible. That is now the way
of television. We are no longer fascinated or perplexed by its machin-
ery. We do not tell stories of its wonders. We do not confine our televi-
sion sets to special rooms.
visible, a simple and given presence,
is still worth considering. Postman
Of course, anything written about computers is likely to seem comi-
cully out of date in little more than a year or two, and certainly, writing in
1985, Postman was not in a position
10 guess at the impact that comput-
ers, email, and the web would soon
exert on our culture. But his point
that computers continue to intrigue
lind trouble us while the technology
of television seems natural and in-
Int~rtexts
Neil Postman, Arrw~ing Ourselves
to Death (New York: Viking, 1985),
7~7~ I
Postman is drawing on the pref-
ace to a collection of essays by
Roland Bartjles, MythQlt4F~si trans.
Anhette Lavers (New York: Hill &
Wang, 1972).
(orwarclillj.l 4 ‘5
argues for this contrast by suggesting that television now fllllllioll:’ ,IS .1
kind of myth, “as Roland Barthes uses the word.” That tag phrase is crucial
to understanding what Postman is doing as a writer. Barthes was a Freudl
literary theorist who wrote from the 1950s through the 1970s and was one
of the first serious critics of popular culture. But while he wrote occasion
ally on television, it was not one of his central interests. And, unlike Post
man, Barthes wrote not only as a critic but as a fan of popular culture. What
Postman takes from Barthes, then, is less an overall approach to looking at
culture than a term and concept (“myth”) that he finds useful for his own
purposes. He does not “apply” Barthes to an analysis of television so much
as borrow the idea of myth from him to explain how TV has now become
natural and familiar to us. And then, having given thanks where due, Post-
man can, in a sense, return the term to Barthes with its original meaning
more or less intact.
This quick, tactical use of other texts is one of the key moves of intel-
lectual writing. To draw on the idea of myth, Postman doesn’t need to come
to terms with Barthes’s overall project as a writer. He simply has to be clear
about where the concept comes from and what he wants to do with it. In
citing Barthes, does Postman enter into conversation with him? Not in any
meaningful sense, it seems to me. Rather, he borrows and reuses materials
made available by Barthes-and which I have then myself put to use here
yet again. Plato worried that writing would allow texts to “roll about …
indiscriminately:’ ungoverned by the aims of their authors and eventually
falling into the hands of “those who have no business” with them. But the
other side of this fear is the democratic hope that all of us can gain access to
the materials of our culture and reshape them to our own purposes.
Extending
Indeed, I’d argue that writing tends to become more exciting as it moves
outward-selecting, excerpting, commenting, and, sometimes, changing or
inflecting the meanings of the texts it brings forward. Consider, for instance,
another use of the work of Roland Barthes by a writer on television-in this
case, David Marc in his book Demographic Vistas, an argument for the TV
sitcom as a form of populist art:
46 Rewriting: How to Do Things with Texts
IIII’ \’11111(‘ Ilf Ip(l)fl’:’~llIll.111 WIt·”IItIl~\.” Itlll.llld1\,lIthl’~ wrote ill 11.);)7,
I 111111II IS the ‘Pt’ll,ldt, (If ~xu’~~.” The SiIWI1I, ill contrast, is a SpCL
l,dl’lIf ,,,hllt-tics. an incremental construction of substitute universes
IlIld upon the foundation of a linear, didactic tcletheater. Even the oc-
l ‘MOII,II insertion of the mirabile or supernatural underlines the genre’s
htll.HIl’1commitment to naturalistic imitation. Presentational comedy,
wlill h shared the prime-time spotlight with the sitcom during the early
yr … ~ of TV. vacillates between the danger of excess and the safety of
WII\l’IISUS. The comedy-variety genre has been the great showcase for
prescutational teleforms: stand-up comedy. impersonation, and the
hl.llkout sketch. It is similar to wrestling, in that it too strives for the
Npl’lllll.:l.eof excess. The pre-electronic ancestors of the comedy-variety
show can be found on the vaudeville and burlesque stages …. But the
“llIlcdy-variety show does not go to the ultimate excesses of wrestling.
I ikl’ the sitcom, it is framed by the proscenium arch and accepts the
h.ldge of artifice.
Unlike Postman, who calls on the concept of myth “as Roland Barthes
Ihe word,” Marc revises Barthes’s phrasing almost in the act of quoting
l’hc spectacle of excess” was how Barthes explained the allure of profes-
wrestling, describing its matches as mock, exaggerated battles between
.md evil that fans can at once laugh at and revel in. (While Barthes
, about wrestling in the 1950s, his words still describe much of the ap-
lor the WWF today.) In forwarding the idea of a “spectacle of subtle-
,”Marc puts his own spin on this celebration of the popular, arguing that
roots of the sitcom lie not in the excesses of burlesque or wrestling but
n the nuances of domestic drama. To understand the sitcom, he suggests,
)(I need a slightly different sense of spectacle. His aim is not to criticize
Iiirthcs’s phrasing (which describes
WIl’stling perfectly well) but to add
til its range of meanings. In thus
t IC’I/(Ung the notion of spectacle,
M.lre can at once link his position
III Harthes and push beyond him.
Ik quotes with a difference, turning
“””thes’s concept, in a move as
Intertexts
David Marc, Demographic Vistas
(Philadelphia: University of Penn-
sylvania Press, 1984).
Marc cites here the famous lead
essay of Barthes’s M~hologies,
“The World ofWresfHng/’ 15-25.
Forwarding 47
powerful :IS it is cllicicut, into nIH’
of his own.
If the stylistic signature of bor
rowing from another text is the note
of acknowledgment (“in the words
of x,” “as y suggests,” “as z uses the
term”), then the characteristic marker of extending is the punning echo
or substituted term-as shown, for instance, in Marc’s rephrasing of the
“spectacle of excess” as a “spectacle of subtleties.” You can see the critic Mar-
jorie Garber making both moves-acknowledgment and substitution-in
the following passage from her essay “Our Genius Problem”:
Intertexts
Marjorie Garber, “Our Genius
Problem,” Atlantic Monthly, De-
cember 2002, 67.
Joseph Addison’s essay “On Genius,” published in The Spectator in
1711, laid out the terrain of genius as we use the term today, to denote
exceptional talent or someone who possesses it. According to Addison,
there were two kinds of genius-natural and learned … In general
terms this dichotomy-brilliant vs. industrious-still underlies our
notion of genius today, but despite Thomas Edison’s oft quoted adage,
“Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspira-
tion,” it’s the inspiration that we dote on.
Garber takes pains here to point out that her key descriptive words for
genius come from Addison (“natural and learned”) and Edison (“inspira-
tion and perspiration”), gracefully noting how one “laid out the terrain” and
how the other gave us his “oft quoted adage.” But to connect their phras-
ings to each other, Garber needs to come up with a new dichotomy of her
own-“brilliant vs. industrious”-which she slides adeptly between long
dashes in her last sentence. This opposition echoes the form of the writers
she quotes, but shifts some of their terms-replacing “natural” and “inspi-
ration” with her own “brilliant,” and “learned” and “perspiration” with her
“industrious.” The result is a phrasing that draws on Addison and Edison,
but that allows Garber to point out what now seems obvious: We expect
our geniuses to be not simply dutiful and hardworking but brilliant. She
does not simply restate but rewrites their familiar contrast in a way that lets
her point out how one of its sides (“brilliant”) tends to be favored over the
other (“industrious”). Through forwarding Addison and Edison, she ar-
rives at her own, separate position as a writer.
48 Rewriting: How to Do Things with Texts
/)(‘finillg lorwar£ling
I ocate a text whose writer forwards the work of another
intellectual or artist. See if the terms I have offered in this
chapter are helpful in describing the uses the writer makes
of this text. That is, does he forward the other text to illustrate
a point he is making? Or does he cite it to authorize his
claims? Or borrow or extend some of its ideas and phrasings?
Or-and this is what would lend this project some real
interest-do you see any points in the text where you would
need a different term to name what the writer is doing? See
if you can take the opportunity here, that is, to extend my
vocabulary, to add to or revise the set of terms I have used
to describe forwarding.
Complexities of Practice
this chapter I’ve identified four types of forwarding: illustrating, autho-
‘”g, borrowing, and extending. A problem with offering advice about
hing, though, is that while you can isolate certain moves that writers
kc, they rarely make those moves in isolation. In the course of an ambi-
s piece of writing, you are likely to forward the work of others in mul-
and overlapping ways: to call on some texts as sources of authority, to
on others for examples, to borrow ideas or extend phrasings from still
rs. And this does not even begin to consider the ways in which you will
probably need in the same piece to come to terms with or counter yet
-r texts. The thing to remember is that the strategies I describe in this
buuk are just that: strategies, moves, ways of advancing your own project
••• 1 writer. In order to identify these strategies, I have chosen passages that
how a writer making a certain move particularly well: Gitlin illustrating,
Puslman borrowing, Marc extending, and the like. But strong writers tend
tu lISC such moves in combination. In closing this chapter, then, I’d Liketo
klOk briefly at a writer making use of several different strategies of forward-
111101all at once.
Forwarding 49
In Fear of Faiting, the cultural critic Barbara Ehrenreich explores till’
anxious social and economic position of the professional middle class
teachers, writers, lawyers, doctors, engineers, administrators, and the like,
Ehrenreich argues that because the members of this class realize that their
position in society rests on their knowledge or expertise, they tend to be
nervous about crediting the views of other, less-credentialed people.
We tend to think of the problem, if we think of it at all, as a simple lack
on the part of the “lower” classes, most likely a simple lack of vocabu-
lary. Stereotypes of verbally deprived workers come to mind: Archie
Bunker with his malapropisms, Ed Norton braying numbly on The
Honeymooners. But usually it is the middle class that is speaking the
strange language-something sociologist Alvin Gouldner called “criti-
cal discourse,” This is the language of the academy and also of bureau-
cracy; and, in his analysis, it defines the professional middle class as a
“speech community” It is distinguished, above all, by its impersonal
and seemingly universal tone. Within critical discourse, Gouldner
writes,
Persons and their social positions must not be visible in their
speech. Speech becomes impersonal. Speakers hide behind their
speech. Speech seems to be disembodied, de-contextualized and
self-grounded.
Relative to the vernacular, critical discourse operates at a high level of
abstraction, always seeking to absorb the particular into the general,
the personal into the impersonal. This is its strength. But the rudely
undemocratic consequence is that individual statements from “be-
low” come to seem almost weightless, fragmentary, unprocessed ….
The way across the language barrier lies, first, through awareness of
the middle-class’ assumptions
that automatically denigrate
“ordinary” styles of speech. In
the longer term, we need a cri-
tique of critical discourse itself.
Is there a way to “re-embody” the
middle-class’s impersonal mode
of discourse, so that it no longer
serves to conceal the individual
and variable speaker? For we may
Intertexts
Barbara Ehrenreich, Fear of Falling:
The Inner Life of the Middle Class
(New York: Harper, 1989),258-59.
Ehrenreich quotes from Alvin
Gouldner, The Future of lntellectu-
sls and the New Class (New York:
Seabury, 197~); 29. ‘ .
50 Rewriting: How to Do Things with Texts
llI’l’d ttl 1111\1oll,~dl/” 1I,11ll’ IIIIIp,II,’gt’ oj .Ih~t,.’lllll”, d WI’ ,IIl’l’WI 10
hnd Ihc”others” in the 1″”~II,I~l’ld d.lily Ide,
This seems to me an example of intellectual writing at its finest. The key
move that Ehrenreich makes is to borrow the notion of critical discourse
from Gouldner in order to suggest that it is not the working class but the
middle class that is “speaking the strange language” -to reinterpret what
.t lirst seemed a “lack” of articulateness as simply a difference in styles of
speech. But she also brings forward two TV texts-All in the Family and
1111’Iloueymooners=es quick illustrations of this seeming inarticulateness,
and she deftly establishes the authority of Gouldner as a sociologist whose
omrnents about middle-class speech are based on something more than
opinion. But what I find most impressive is how she extends Gouldner’s
thinking through echoing and reworking his key terms. The problem with
ritical discourse, Ehrenreich suggests, is that it is not self-critical enough:
‘IWI c need a critique of critical discourse itself,” she argues. Speech that
(iouldner describes as “disembodied” she urges us to “re-embody.” If
middle-class “[s]peakers hide behind their speech,” she exhorts us to “find
nurse/ves in” our language once again, Gouldner was trying to define the
discourse of a particular middle-class community, what he called the “new
class” of intellectuals. Ehrenreich wants us to recognize that community
and its particular style of discourse so we can then push at its limits and
constraints, to rethink the assumptions we bring to our attempts to listen
to the speech of others. She brings pressure on Gouldner’s ideas about criti-
~1I1discourse at the same time she draws upon them. In doing so, she shows
how you can offer readers a new way of thinking about a text through the
w••ys you rewrite its central terms and concepts.
l.xtcnding another text can be risky work. There is always the chance that
you’ll go too far, misappropriate the ideas or phrasings of another writer. Is
• spectacle of subtleties really very much like a spectacle of excess, you might
rsk David Marc? Or do learned and industrious describe quite the same
thing, you might ask Marjorie Garber? But I also think it is precisely the
willingness to take such chances, to rewrite the terms and ideas of others, to
Forwarding 51
make them your own, that so often makes extending such a salient move ill
ambitious intellectual prose.
Still, I want to be careful not to denigrate the other forms of forward
ing. Citing authorities, culling examples, borrowing concepts or phras
ings-these are moves you need to be able to make with confidence and
speed. I also want to note that throughout this chapter, I have deliberately
focused on the local and tactical-on ways to make use of specific images,
phrasings, and concepts from other texts. There are broader ways of work-
ing in the mode of another writer, of taking on not just an idea or a term
but an approach or perspective, a sensibility or method. I will discuss these
moves in chapter 4 on taking an approach.
Before doing so, though, I will turn in the next chapter to a more critical
and skeptical form of rewriting in which you aim to counter the positions
taken by other writers, to note the limits of their work. In closing here, then,
let me point to a shift in tone or style between forwarding and countering.
In forwarding words, ideas, or images from another text, your focus tends
to be on where you are headed as a writer, on what you’re doing with your
materials. But to counter another text effectively your focus usually needs
to stay longer on its claims and phrasings. In a peculiar way, then, the act
of countering or criticizing a text often lends it a stature that forwarding
does not. You can imagine, for instance, David Marc deciding he needed to
explain more fully the problems with looking at popular culture as a “spec-
tacle of excess.” But to do so he’d need to write a passage not on the sitcom
and his ideas about it but on Roland Barthes. The work of countering a text
tends to be slow and careful. The pace of forwarding is usually quicker, its
touch lighter. Its aim is to take what is useful from a text and move on.
Projects
Forwarding Nonprint Texts
The next time you write an essay in which you discuss
a nonprint text, try to find a way to incorporate that text
as seamlessly as you can into your document. You might
consider scanning images into the body of your text or
embedding web Iinks to audio or visual files in an electronic,
52 Rewriting: How to Do Things with Texts
cin’lllll”1I1. ()’, if Y'”‘ clon’l lr.lVI’ ,II I C””” 10 ,I …, ,11111(‘1 01
W(II> I(I,lmology, you (.111sldl cut “1Ie1Ihl~I(‘ images (ads,
postt .irds, phOIOS, (‘1(..) into 111(‘text you are composing. See
if YOll can “wrap” your text around the image (as my prose
WI,lpS around the inserts in this book). Xeroxing a page can
make the interface between image and text appear more
seamless. In any case, do not simply append images or links
10 the end of your text. Your goal should be instead to make
those texts part of your own document.
I offer this project as both a technical and intellectual
challenge. For I think you will find that once you insert an
image (or other media text) into the body of your writing,
you will feel a need to comment on it in ways that you might
not have had you simply paper-clipped it to the back of your
essay. Indeed, if you want to take this project a step further,
see if you can quote the same nonprint text a second time
in your essay, but isolating a particular aspect or fragment of
il-a section of an image, perhaps, or a line from a scene, or
a riff from a song. Experiment if you can with re-presenting
or reformatting the text-through changing its shape, color,
volume, and so on. Try not simply to reproduce the text but
to forward it, to use it to make a point of your own.
Forwarding 53
Helping Students Use Textual
Sources Persuasively
MARGARET KANTZ
• Kantz, Margaret. “Helping Students Use Textual Sources Persuasively.
”
College English 52.1 (1990): 74-91. Print.
Framing the Reading
Given this chapter’s focus on rhetoric, several of its pieces suggest writing and reading aro
not just about transmitting and receiving information. Texts don’t mean the same thing to
pvery reader because, as rhetorical theory shows, readers construct meaning by interacting
with texts, putting something of themselves into the text and drawing meaning from the
text’s context.
Margaret Kantz’s work takes us to the next logical step, in discussing how it is that w(
‘
wnte a new text from other existing texts. In Kantz’s article we follow the learning expert
CI1CCS of a particular student, Shirley. Whereas Shirley had been taught in high school th,ll
“I csearch” meant compiling facts and transmitting them to a teacher, she must now lealll
10 lise a variety of conflicting sources to make an original argument on the subject she’s
I(‘~(,Mching. Kantz analyzes how Shirley has moved from the realm of reporting “just 111″
f.ICls” to the more sophisticated world of arguing about what the facts might be, and sill’
-hows readers how many new ideas are involved in that change.
1\ key concept in this change is learning to recognize that facts aren’t so much inhet
nntly true statements as they are claims-that is, assertions that most of a given audienco
lidS agreed are true because for that audience sufficient proof has already been given
YOlI, like most people, would probably classify the statement “the Earth is round” AS II
“Ide I ” Its status as a fact, however, depends on our mutual agreement that” round” is 1111
,HI(lquate description of the Earth’s actual, imperfectly spherical shape. What Kantz wal1l~
ll~ 10see is that what makes the statement a fact is not how “true” the statement is bill
til.!1 most people have agreed that it’s true and treat it as true. Statements about which WI’
luvcu’Lreached this consensus remain claims, statements that people argue about. Kant/\
WOIk here demonstrates why it’s so important to read texts-even
“ftlc tual” works like textbooks and encyclopedias-as consisting of
11,,11I1~,not facts.
IhiS Idea that textbooks and other “factual” texts aren’t in-
1ll’lC’Iltly true but instead simply represent a consensus of opin-
IIlII I~ d major conceptual change from the way mOI,1 c,IIIcI(,l1h
1\1(‘t””(jllt in school before college. It is also” Illlliol 1i1)1I1″,,1101l
01 1111’1011,,11theolY. I ike the idea~ that writlllq I’. ,”w”V” 1″‘1,1111<11
4)11
III’ I ~ I’ I 11.1 hll IV 4J’t
) I I I <'I1tollllll'II'1i II you Il·tld Mlilldy\ dill(,lltl IllilPly 1.11I11dl111\11 IIIIIIIIIIVI', w lit 1 YOI .. . I I I p" It) tlbOll1 cil' 1;1ctltlpler 1 (p (lit), ,1111111"01" .md flower's ~lndll1lJS(111 lx:~ ~~:Pi:~a of tr\.llb lnult hnw different re('\dl'l<' ((111',1111(1their own meanings fro~ te.' d d pistemic
h ., qualities of bemg situate an e ,
Ihlollql1 consensus stems from r etonc s h I are limited to subjective,
~1\()wll’Clge.making. Rhetorical theory suggests t at peop e bedded in particular
1111111 knowledge formed through consensus because we are em
I’ , n issuefrom every angle or perspective simultaneously, lsav-
1111 ,II\pnts-we can never see a .. I I . thO .d a that Kantz is working on in
11111 0111knowledge incomplete and provrsiona.. t IS ISI e
I’Kploi ing the difference bhe.tweenfa~s :ndpr~:~:~r at Central Missouri State University,
While Kantz wrote t IS piece . II U’ sity
‘.hl’ conducted the research for it as a graduate student at Carnegie Me on nlv~~ris~
()’II’ of her professors there was Linda Flower and ~ne of her classmates was
h es you might have noticed earlier In this chapter (and, If you pay111101 Ilaas, w ose nam .’ . d that texts
. . Kantz’s Works Cited list). We make this point to rerrun you .
Clll’.l’ attention, In b h insid d outside
,III’ .ruthored by real people, and these people are often connected ot InSI e an
IIf IIH?lrtexts.
Getting Ready to Read
III’/Ole you read, do at least one of the following activities:
• Think about an argument you’ve had recently in which people disagreed about till’
facts of the issue. How did you resolve the factual dispute? Did the arg,uersever
a ree on what the facts were? If not, how was the argument resolved. ,
• ~rite down, in a few quick sentences, how you define these terms: fact. claim,
opinion and argument. t th
• Watch ~hreeTV commercials (you might want to record them) and coun ,e
number of facts and the number of claims in each. Then think about wha~s most
persuasive in the ads: the facts, the claims, or the combination of the two.
1\” yOll read Kantz’s article, consider the following questions:
I· ,
d K t know what she knows? What is the basis for her calms.• I low oes an z h t to know or
• What is Kantz’s research question or problem? What does s e wan ,
what is she trying to solve? .’ r
• What challenges do the students about whom Kantz writes face In making sense 0
conflicting sources?
•• 11, •• ‘ •••••••• •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• .
Although the researched l’~”‘,\y ” .. ,I topic 1I,)s hCC~ll11~lcl~written a~o~It, i,~~~:,~~1I” little studied. ‘n II\(‘ III” ndlli 111111to t ‘WI!’ bibliography, l 01 e1, ,
I W
,cClld . t t thnt 1110 ..1 III 1111IIVCI I()() ,Inkk ..ahout rcsctlrchcd CSfl:1Y:-‘
,lIli (lr pOIn ou ” I I I II’ , ‘S ‘ribc d:1SSI’OOIlI
I'”h’ishl.’d il.l profcssiOlll1ll11llll\ld~ III I 11 ,I~I hI U IIllIry tlC,1;; I “.’ II
I I “~I’ “tlwy S’IY “III “I I 1111 1111 lit .Ii ”’IIIII’l’ or ‘t1~t\ \)11 1(~t.lll ‘IIIH'( lO~~. ‘cw, ., • ‘ ,I I'” (2) (;iVl’1l h”l
I I . CI’ll” “VI'” 11111 “till I \\111 1111 I 11 “,,
1Il1t •,llli II 1)10st 110m ” ,
411) IIAPHR Hh”‘nll«
.•”d p(.” )”1′ IIndlJlg rh.u H4’Yc,of II .~
til ••dV.IIll’l·d cOll1positlon progrnm-, “”1.111 IlIlllpCl~III()1l progrnm), .•Ild “0””
p.I,K·J’s, more lh(.’orctical work IIlI I””t’l I 1ll\lllIlliol1 in wriling “l’~(”’fl”
~(‘(‘IlIS needed. We need a theory- . ..
h.I.~(‘d explanation, one grounded
III rill’ findings of the published re- W< need a theory-based explalldtl()fl
"·.lJ'ch on the nature and reasons one grounded in the findings of till'
lor. ~)llr students' problems with published research on the netuto elml
wriuug persuasive researched pa- reasons for our students' problem«
pel's. To understand how to teach .
‘
with writing persuasive reseaf’c/)”dstuucnrs to write such papers we c-
:11~oneed a better understanding papers.
of Ihe demands of synthesis tasks. . ..
As an example for discussing thi 1 .
lege sophomore. This student’ IS compo ex to~IC, I have used a typical col I
(rom my Own memories of b I.Sa comPdoslte derived from published research
I elUg a stu ent and fro d h ‘l:lIIg tr ar an open admissions Com . ‘ 11 m stu ents w om I h,IVI’
vare universities. Ihave also d ~ulllty co ege and at both public and Pi I
II f I use a lew examples taken f·:1 () W 10m share many of Shi I’ . . . rom my Own srudcnr-,
well-motivated. She is a nat’ ir ey s ktralts. Shirley, first of all, is intelligent., 11Ii . , an s e soon ecame fi’sforlCS and at writing narratives D . h pro Clent at readilll’ ( ( S ‘ ,y can rea an summar”c . , plvey; Winograd) She c, . Ize Source texts accul’:1ldy. . . . an se ect matenal that is reI f I I en e au lence IS specified (A I ) 51 ‘!lllglll.1 connections among ‘d (B t as, le can mak(·,leas rown and Day· L .) Sl,IPPIOPI’I:1tl’ audience-based f ‘ angel, 1e can crcalc all ” 1111′ Ililginni Sources (Atlas’ W· y Pdl)ve AI I h . ca emlC prepara tlonI lOllS Shirley seems to ha h'” ” >.111 l’ of AgincOllrt (this part of SI ‘.,’ . ‘. Ice to wnte abollt tilt’ I I “, “)ec tIe cJrCUI11Sf:1I1(‘(‘” 01 II . I I’ fl”ll I. A Ihough the tonic wns f ‘1’ I I( ):111’C 111n ‘cw P.lIW~ ” ,~ :1~I:-; !lIlO WI OWII \ I I .. , 11 I I” W 1.)1., It I~ 11111. ” I” h, IIt’I ‘!lIlI( ,’e’ , MAlWA’H I I(ANII II Ipltl I 111,11’111\ Ihl 1«JlIII” “HIIC I’ll \1′ Iv Iy 411
IIlll’ll’IIillg till’ 1’0101y, ••1111 11111111’111111\ till’ narr.uive structure 01 Ill’!’ p.lpl’l 1111 Although Shirley is a hypothetical student whose case is based 011 a real rhe task of writing researched papers that express original arguments pi \’ Morcover, a given task (.’;111 Ill’ illi(‘1PI'(‘lt’d :1Srequiring all easy method, ,I II .,u (IIAI’ II H I HIlt”Otll
1,IlIIIl’y moly 01′ Illay IlOI need 10 ‘IIIIIIi, ‘.11111111.11111″ III’ sl’ll’<:1 1l1:l1L'l'lnlIroru 111'1
"lIlrll· ...; ~()evaluate the MlUrCL'S(01 lu.iv, .u i 1I1.1l),,111 completeness: to lIl'VI'I01'
llrigl 11 (1 I ideas, or to persuade OJ render. l luw wel] she performs any of 11\('.,1'
I.".k~ nnd whether she thinks to perf 01'111 thl·...c tasks-depends on how ...ill'
IT;llis Ihe texts and on how she interprets the assignment. Shirley's reprCSl'111.1
111m of the task, which in this case was easier than her teacher had in nund
depends on the goals that she sets for herself. The goals that she sets dePI'IHi
Oil I~cr.nwarcness of the possibilities and her confidence in her writing ski lis.
Peeling unhappy about her grade, Shirley consulted her friend Alice. “lin’, “Who were your sources?” asked Alice. “Winston Churchill, right? A French “No,” said Shirley. “I thought the history books would know the truth. ‘J “Bul Shirley,” said Alice, “you could have thought aboLlt why a book L’1I III “Iice’~ representation of the task would have required Shirley to forl11;llly II “Wt’il,” said Alice, “You’re dealing with facts, so there aren’t too many choices. I’ “Cec.’,” said Shirley, “That’s awesome. Iwish I’d thought of it.” I I o( Iwl’ pnper but would give her an original argument and pm’pose. To Wrill’ till’ MAlu,””1 I KANll II II
/\ … llli~ anecdoll’ III.tll , ,Ii II, I HI\l1I 1(1)1111.111Ill’ IIl’;III,d III III(ln’ III It·., … II One implication of this story is that the instructor gave a weak asslg~me~l II> Even if given specific directions to create an original argument, Shirley might I’ Ikcause historical texts often have a chronological structure, students bclcevl’ IH 4J4 HArTER 3 Hlwlol ie
‘II IIdl’lltS c0I11I11only misread rexts ,I’ 11.111,1111’1”’,WIH’1l students refer to n I(‘XI The writing version of Shirley’s problem, which Flower calls “writer-based IV III ,Iddilion to reading texts as stories, students expect factual texts to It,ll ‘II MIIK(jAlIiI ~I\NII II 11″1 J II r II 11111′.011111 ~ I’!.!IIt.l\IV Iv 415
WllI’lI I have ~I~kl’d ·,III.i'”1 Ittllrtttt I ‘IttI’ll .uul lind rhrcc or 111111′(‘ .,Ollill’S ‘I The skills that Shirley has practiced for most of her academic career- , , One way to help students like Shirley is to teach the concept of rhetorical situ ) I 416
l’lu- U)II~I’PI oj rhrtoricnl siIIIIlIHIIII,’h I~ 11I\1)-:lIt11111)thl’ nnt un- of sllldl’III~’ In the context of a research assignment, rhetorical skills can be used to rl’:ld ‘ I1’1hlltll,lg and commJtted members of rhetorical communities” (182). One cnrl) III Ihis version of Kinneavy’s triangle, the Encoder is the writer of the SOllrCI’ ‘f I( ‘lhil’lcy, for example, had asked a J)t’l’Ot!I’1 1111111IHI”I qll(‘siion ‘slIlil,I’ ‘ MAHI,I\IU I KI’NII II tl”I”I IllIh’lIl~thl I )(11111 ,1111111 1″1511. ‘Iv.ly 411
.lIld till’ Cui:l.ol~ WI’I’I WI11111,’,1111 ‘IWI itic audiences. If she had IIS!..I·”,I I)tol’od”1 A factual topic such as the Battle of Agincourt presents speCial prohl,ems 1M Alice who thinks rhetorically, understands that both facts and oplOlons (11’1′ ‘” For example, Shirley’s sources gf’lve different numbers for the Sll.C, of rhe It) IIlgl1 1″llIllIlIl’lol 1I11’Ioft’lItll ,11111) 111.11\1111\ 11111111111,11111′ 01 1″(‘llIgl,,1I VIIIIII\ 1’01’ mo~t ~f her aca~emic life, Shirley has done school tasks that require h”1 ‘I Read.ing sourc~s rhetorically gives students a powerful tool for creating ,I I’ As. Ihese examples, suggest,. h?wever, rhetorical reading is not a magic” I 11 ’10 move students beyond merely reporting the content and rhetorical oricn II MAlU,AHII KANI’ II
,I g,Ip 111,Iyoccin Ill’l \\ 1’111 lilt 111″,,1, I lin 1111″1 tOllll’l” wll~'” 1Ill’ 11′,1111’1 IS Shirley, for example, did not know that Churchill began wrrting The Birth H To discover gaps, students may need to learn heuristics for settmg rhetOrical I” For exampJe, a sophomore at a private university was struggh.Jl~ With ~n a~- l’ M[lrbnisc, who was fl liclllt’lI:\llI III 111(‘ IJ,S. Mnrincs over thirty years ngo … 440 Ik~IIIISl’ IVL”Il,li’I’ h,IS nOI IWIII III 0,,1,11111 1″, 1(I’,lIly ItH’IYYl’,W.h’I1I’I’I(, Ilt’ The second paragraph answers the So what? question, i.e., “Why docs it 11111111’1 The relative success of some students in finding original things to say about IN .L~t us now assume that Shirley understands the importance of creating :111 • l)r1fICl1~ttasks may be difficult in either (or both of) two ways. First, Lhl’y III 111 ,I IOI:k:t I (>1’111’1.,A It 1111111′,11..III’ ,llokl’l! till’ logil.’,tI q ucsl ruu II h()111I It I’ 1111 pili ,I 1\ skillful student 1l~ll1g till’ sumrnarize-the-main-idcns approach 1.::111 St’l II Shirley may respond to the challenge by concentrating her energies on a famil- 4l !.hc problems of cognitive overload and inexperience in handling complex III 44)
.uu l dl’~P:ljl, t1l1(lWIIl~uwuy pt’lklll) “”,1hi. IIHlgh dl.ilh .uid tlll’lI ~()lIlillg III The .,1udcnt ‘s first ora fr about drug te …tllig told her knowledge a bout 111’1 Not once docs Marbaise consider any of the psychological reasons why kid … This comment represents Terri’s answer to the heuristic “So what? Why elm'” Rhetorical reading and writing heuristics can help students to represent task ~ III And after all, creativity is what research should be about, if Shirley writl’ … MAtHIAtll1 KAHil II tpllll( ,111111″I’ IJ)’ 1″”.11111 ‘,,,11111 ,1″‘1 lfil~I\II’ly 441
Appendix A: Page 1 of Shirl y” p per
‘l’he baltic of Agincourt r.mks .IS one of England’s greatest military triumphs.
II W,IS the most brilliant victory of the Middle Ages, bar none. ]t was fought
fill October 25, 1414, against the French near the French village of Agincourt.
l lcnry Vhad claimed the crown of France and had invaded France with an army ,’slitl1lltcd at anywhere between 10,0001 iH’id 45,000 men’, During the seige of Marflcur
clY!4(‘l1tcryhad taken@ofthem3, his food supplies had been depleted’, and the fall
r.u tIH had begun. Inaddition the French had assembled a huge army and were marching
iowurd him. Henry decided to march to Calais, where his ships were to await him”,
lit. intended to cross the River Somme at the ford of Blanchetaque”, but, falsely
iulorrncd that the ford was guarded’, he was forced to follow the flooded Somme up
toward its source. The French army was shadowing him on his right. Remembering
lilt’ slaughters ofCrecy and Poictiers, the French constable, Charles d’Albret,
lu-sitated to fights, but when Henry forded the Somme just above Amiens? and was JtI~1
I. Carl Stephinson, Medieval History, p. 529.
J.. ~u izot, Monsieur and Guizot, Madam~ World’s Best Histories-France, Vohm 1(‘ II,
p.21].
i. CyriclE. Robinson, England-A History of British Progress, p. 145.
4. [bid. of Britain, p. 403.
(I, Ibid.
7. Ibid. 9. Churchill, p. 403.
Works Cited
A.., h, ~il”)IIHIII,Sru’/t1/I’.sYI’I!”/og,l\ Nnv ‘”11 1’1, III II,. 1’1 \ ‘. ,,1111/111,,”111111111 Itl”I’.llIh A”,,, 111111111 III J IltII I II III ..’I “Create a Research Sometimes getting through the introduction of a research article can be themost difficult part of reading it. In his CARS model, Swales describes three or
help in understanding the selections in the rest of the book.
Move 1: Establishing a Territory Step 1: Claiming Centrality
The author asks the discourse community (the audience for the paper) to accept “Recently there has been a spate of interest in … ” This step is used widely across the academic disciplines, andlor
Step 2: Making Topic Generalizations
‘I’h« author makes statements about current kl141\\II·d”,l” ‘””oIpl,”’ 110111 Julin M \w,III’\\ (,”ml’ 1111,11)”,1\ /111/”” ,II A I “II ‘I/” ,,11111111″111’
JUI1N\WAII\ “(11′,111′ II{OI II II II
IIII’ 1′”IPI’11U’N 01X nil’ .”illl1ol I.Olllpil’h,ly lI11dl’lhlllmt.”
I~ .llIIIIUlIIIII fil1tllllg III p.nicms with” ,”
and/or
p 3: Reviewing Previous Items of Research 111′” “‘Illl’ll.””I \1’l,tI ~llIdics ha vc suggested that, .. (Gordon, 2003; Ratzinger, 2009).” 111111Wllh’W:1de~ in English courses (Jones, 2002; Strong, 2009).”
In LIIIIIJ.\ till’ research of others, the author may use integral citation (citing tI,w M V 2: Establishing a Niche , , unt r claiming ,” hill’ 1(lIII’~ :111(1 Riley believe X method to be accurate, a close exnl1lin:lI’ioll Indluth,,) n Gap \\’I”i! I’SINIIIIj\ Nilidil’~ hnvc clearly cstnhlisuvd X, they haw nOI lIdd’l’SSI’d Y,”
Ou.”Inn r ‘hln9 ‘4 II III IIdlli 11111110 till’ «(lIIVI’I·••,tlnll
“\'(Illdi’ 10111’\ .uid I\torgall h.1VI· C~I:lhll”l1nl ‘!\. tilL’ 1111.111111’1.11\1′.1 numhe: of Continuing a Tradition
The author presents the research as a useful extension of existing research. For “Earlier studies seemed to suggest X. To verify this finding, more work is urgently Move 3: Occupying a Niche Step 1A: Outlining Purposes
The author indicates the main purpose(s) of the current article. For example:
“In this article I argue … ”
“The present research tries to clarify … ”
or Step 1B: Announcing Present Research
The author describes the research in the current article. For example:
“This paper describes three separate studies conducted between March 2008 and Step 2: Announcing Principal Findings
‘I’IH: author presents the main conclusions of his or her research. For example:
“The results of rhc study suggest … ”
“Wlll’l1 we eX:1111ined X, we discovered … ”
Stop 3: Indicating the Structure of the RC50nrfil Altlt.h
rill’ .lllIhOl’ preview» tilt’ orgnniznrion 01 till .11111II I til’ \,1I1Ipl,·:
I (I “II,) M”d,·llIl III’., .11111UlliN ..WAil., lie 11′,111′.1 HI ‘., .11’ I “”
r Kind of Reading: Peer Texts
111111111III 11”’IIiIHI til(‘ IPWdlCh about wlilil1lj r out-nnod m tlus book, the WIII”H) d .. ·.\ 111111f 11″1’1111’>1’YOIJ’II need 10 read carefully for understanding. but then t11~()W!ll ~ IU ltv 1’11I1i…·.1I1 Hld’dlcJ Shaub written directly to students regarding how 10 rc~p(ll1d
I I d lve spea er of English She h
Stich studying skiJls as finding th’ unn?d er academic life, Shirley has le3I’n(·,i
I Ie maID 1 ea and rememb . fI 1l’ I’l’ eVant research Shirle d d enng acts, In terms of
III wl’ltlng (Hayes Waterman d R b’ evant or ler purpOM’
I i01l1l berween the ‘available’ ‘f an .0 1Oson; Langer). She call make connl’t’
I 10 ormatlOn and her pur f ” .I It’ Il(‘(‘dl. of her readers wh th d” . _pose or Wl’ltll1g, IIlcludinp
II'” I111’111C(f~ctively while co stru~tureh or her paper (Spivey), take notes nnd
mposll1g er paper (Kenned) d hIII nllll.llion clcarly and smoothl (S’ ). . ~,an s e can preselll
S
Y
h’.wlth.ou~ relYll1g on the phrasing ofII ‘ Illogra . trley IS . .III I’I\(‘ student with an average ad’ ‘ 111 my expenence, a typlcnl
lliflit.:ulty with assignments til t .ve e.very,t tng go~g for her, she experien(.’I”a require ler to write .. ,
fl”l:tll,d sources. In particular Sh’ 1 . h’ . ongll1a papers based Oil
wl’itillg class. Shirley who ‘1’lkes1rEeyIS,.lav,l~g difficulty in her sophomor(‘-IL’vd
I ,. ng lSI llstory dec’l d .
d del/(’11 hislories Ih:1t desc”( ‘1 I’ll ~ys story IS blogt’:1phic:1I). She found holl
I I I'” un a 1111 1<11' r It· ~DIIII!'~ I • IIIII,. ~IId(·y l'oll:ltt'd Iht'~" f ' . . I ' ','.I('t·( on 1ll.1f1y01 Ihe
IIlg ( 1′(‘I'(‘P:l111dt’f;lil~, hOI’l'()wi l’ I I II ,1111111111 III’ 1101di~l’IIN'”
, “”’IIPIl~I’
Ih.1I of her SOUI’Ct’~,”lilli’ IIII’ only comments Shirley could thin], of would Ill’
10 .II\I'(:eor disagree wuh 111’1sources, who had cold her everything ~IH’ J..IH·W
nhout the Battle of Agincourt, she did not comment on the material; iIlSfL’:1d,
..Ill’ concentrated on telling the story clearly and more completely than ht’t
..1I”n,’l·S had done. She was surprised when her paper received a grade of C ,
(1′.lgL’ I of Shirley’S paper is given as Appendix A.)
event, her difficulties are typical of undergraduates at both private and pub
III colleges and universities. In a recent class of Intermediate Composition ill
which the students were instructed to create an argument using at least four
1I’\ltl
IIIvi I’ instructor said tbat their papers lacked a genuine argument.
~I·”ts many difficulties. Besides the obvious problems of citation format .1IIt!
IO()l’dination of source materials with the emerging written product, wrifill~
” synl hesis can vary in difficulty according to the number and length of tl1l’
‘”l1I’CeS, the abstractness or familiarity of the topic, the uses that the wl’ir(‘1
IIlllst make of the material, the degree and quality of original thought required,
.I”d rhe extent to which the sources will supply the structure and purpose of
IlH’ new paper. It is usually easier to write a paper that uses all of only 0111.’
~h()1’1source on a familiar topic than to write a paper that selects material frolll
11I.IIlY long sources on a topic that one must learn as one reads and writes. It
I~(‘nsier to quote than to paraphrase, and it is easier to build the paraphrnsl’s,
wllhout comment or with random comments, into a description of what ol1e
“llIlId than it is to use them as evidence in an original argument. It is easier 10
me whatever one likes, or everything one finds, than to formally select, cvn III
,11(‘) :Jod interpret material. It is easier to use the structure and purpose of n
~ollrcc as the basis for one’s paper than it is to create a structure oj’ an origill:ll
pllrpose, A writing-from-sources task can be as simple as collating a body o(
Lici~ frOI11a few short texts on a familiar topic into a new text that rcprodll(;(‘~
fill’ structure, tOne, and purpose of the originals, but it can also involve apply
I”g abstl’Clcr concepts from one area to an original problem in a diffol:ent :11′(‘.1,
,I I.,~k that involves learning the relationships among materials as a prlpe!’ ”
t renred that may refer to its SOllrl.'(‘SwirhOLIt resembling them.
dtlkllllll1elhod, or any Of.l hlllldl\’d illl(,IIII(ldi<1f('nwthous. III this ('Ollf1'\ I,
HOWl'r h:l~observed, "TI1l' dilllll'llI \\"V 111 "hid, "flitlelll<; In',m'~l'lIll" ',11111
d.11d' 1'(',ldilll~'II)Wl'il(' f,l,k III Iltl 111,,1 lit ~ 11,1.1 III 11till "('tlly dill('n'lIl 1',Il.rI..,.1I1t1
"I"I\'I\i('~ .1., wi'll .... dilll'II'IIIII1)' 1111/111" ,,, 111'.... (I~fl/l·lli), "'ll Willi'" ~Ylllll1'''~.
who is nn expert, looked at the task in a completely different way and usrd
…1 rutcgics for thinking about it that were quite different from Shirley’s.
couple and a few others. And they didn’t agree about the details, such as till’
sizes of the armies. Didn’t you wonder why?”
When they disagreed, I figured that they were wrong on those points. I didn’t
want to have anything in my paper that was wrong.”
litled A History of France might present a different view of the battle Ih’)l1
a book subtitled A History of British Progress. You could have asked if tlw
ElIglis~ and French writers wanted to make a point about the history of thcli
CClulltnes and looked to see if the factual differences suggested anything. Yo”
(meld even have talked about Shakespeare’s Henry V, whid1 r know you’Vt.
I\’nd-.nbout how he presents the battle, or about how the King Henry in Ill(‘
pl.1Y differs from the Henrys in your other books. You would have had ;111
.”Igle, n problem. Dr. Boyer would have loved it.”
…~·Il’ci~lnd evaluate her material and to use it as proof in an original argument.
“lin’ was suggesting that Shirley invent an original problem and purpose fOI
111’1paper and create an original structure for her argument. AJice’s t
” you want to say something original you either have to talk about the SOurcL’S
III t.tlk ilbout the material. What could you say about the materiaJ? Your papl’1
lold .Iholll nil tbe reasons King Henry wasn’t expected to win the battle. Could
YOIIhiwL’ argued that he should have lost because he took too many chances?”
This version of the task would allow Shirley to keep the narrative struCI III'” II
.1 I);Ul11.l·111, Shirley would have only to rephrase th(‘ c.·ventsof the story to t::tkl’ .111
()1~P()Slll’approach fr(lm that of her English SOlln:l”, (‘lllphnsizing whnr sht· pl’l
u’lvl,d ilS Ilcnry’s Illi~takes and inserting C()l1l1l1l’llh1111·,pl.lil1why hi~ dc<.:i~i()l1~
\\'1'1'(' lid~lilk('s-:Ull'll~)' nl'gullW111 to wl'ill'. ~111'111"leI,elNlI, II NIH'wislwd, Wl'it('.1
111111""Hllllltlillritili/nllhl' dWl'r]I'lltillig telill ." Iii 111111,,11"""I'll''''.
“lIphi,tit:lted wayv .uul “‘111’1″‘,11,,III cI gil.” .., “‘lIlh ,I~ invcutinj; :111mig!II:” pUI
pll”l’ nnd evaluating ~lllllll·~. 1.111Ill’ .11 hu-vcd m relatively simple vl’fsi<.II."01.1
I .....k. Students have many opllllll' .1'. 10 how they can fulfill even a speed" insk
(I f. jeffery). Even children (;111 decide whether to proces~ a text deeply or I~()I,
uud purpose in reading affects processing and monitoring of cOl1'lprChel1S1011
(Isrown). Pichert has shown that reading purpose affects judgments about what
" unportant or unimportant in a narrative text, and other research t~lIs LIS that
.urirudcs toward the author and content of a text affect comprehension (Asch;
111Il~e;Shedd; Goldman), .
.uul an ineffective critique of the draft (her only comment referred to Shirley s
fool noting technique; d. Appendix A). The avail.able research sugge~ts that
II Dr. Boyer had set Shirley a specific rhetorical problem such as having her
report on her material to the class and then testing them 011 it, and, if she ~ad
l ommcnted on the content of Shirley’S paper during the drafts, Shirley 111Ighl
wi-l] have come up with a paper that did more than repeat its source matcrinl
(Nt”ison and Hayes). My teaching experience supports this research finding,
II Dr. Boyer had told Shirley from the outset that she was expected to ~:ly
“”I”crhing original and that she should examine her so~ces ~s she r~ad dW11i
IIII’ discrepant facts, conflicts, or other interesting matenal, Shtrley, mIght hllV!’
IIH·d to write an original argument (Kantz, “Originality”). And If Dr. BOyl’1
h.ld suggested that Shirley use her notes to comment on her sources and l11akl’
pl.lllS for using the notes, Shirley might have written a better paper than she
clill (Kantz, Relationship). . .
h.lve had difficulty with the task. Her difficulty could come from any of tbree
\ .III~es: I) Many students like Shirley misunderstand sources because they rend
tllI’lll as stories. 2) Many students expect their sources to tell the truth; hence,
tlll’Y equate persuasive writing in this context with making things up. 3) Many
~llId(‘nts do not understand that facts are a kind of claim and are often used
IWI·~w1.sivelyin so-called objective writing to cr<~ate an impression. ~tudcnts
1I1'1'd10 read source texts as arguments and to thmk about the rhetoncal con-
(I'xl'" in which they were written rather than to read them merely as a SCI of
I.Il!'> to be learned. Writing an original persuasive argument based 011 sources
Il’quires students to apply material to a problem or to Llse it to answer a ques
11011,rather than simply to repeat it or evaJuate it. These three problems deserve
.1″‘(‘pnrate discussion. .
tll.l1 historinns tell stories, and th~t renarrating the battle casts thcm flS ” hi”to
11.111.Because her sources el11pha..i/,~’dthe completeness of the victory/defeat ;lIld
Ih dl’d~ivc importance in rill’ hi~tl)l Y of warfnre, Shirley thought that Illtlkilll’.
Ihl’M’ ~ame points in her p:1pl’l (1IIIIpll·tl’d IIl’I joh.ller job as a rend”r wOl~11111…
III II’illll thc story, i.(‘., ~C) Ih.1I ~”I((lId,1 p.I~”.l 1(‘..,1Oil il (d. Vipollci an
hook ,IS “the story,” they arc telling til, rh.u Ihl’} 11′:1(1(or plot and chnr.u u-r,
Iq~,lrdk”s of whether their texts are organized us narratives. One reason Shirk)
IIIVI’., history is that when she reads it she can combine her story-reading SIr’III
‘l:II’~with her studying strategies. Students like Shirley may need to learn to
.ipply basic organizing patterns, such as cause-effect and general-to-specific, to
IIH’ir texts. If, however, Dr. Boyer asks Shirley to respond to her sources in ,1
W,I) Ihat is not compatible with Shirley’s understanding of what such Source,
do, Shirley will have trouble doing the assignment. Professors may have to do
-omc preparatory teaching about why certain kinds of texts have certain cluu
.icteristics and what kinds of problems writers must solve as they design tcxr
101 a particular audience. They may even have to teach a model for the kind III
wrrt iuj; they expect.
prose,” occurs when Shirley organizes what should be an expository analysis
a., a narrative, especially when she writes a narrative about how she did hl’l
rcvcarch. Students frequently use time-based organizing patterns, regardless 01
IIll’ task, even when such patterns conflict with what they are trying to say nnd
even when they know how to use more sophisticated strategies. Apparently
such common narrative transitional devices such as “the first point” and “tilt,
Ill’xt point” offer a reassuringly familiar pattern for organizing unfamiliar 111:1
f~’ria I.The common strategy of beginning paragraphs with such phrases as “my
111’~tsource,” meaning that it was the first source that the writer found in Ihe
hhrary or the first one read, appears to combine a story-of-my-research strut:
I~1I’ewith a knowledge-telling strategy (Bereiter and Scardamalia, Psychology),
I~vl’n when students understand that the assignment asks for more than the
lill in the-blanks, show-me-you’ve-read-the-material approach described by
I.)dlwegler and Sl1amoon, they cling to narrative structuring devices. A rank
mdt’l’illg of OUl’ces, as with Mary’s analysis of dle football game coverage with
1111′ S(lIll’ces listed in an order of ascending disapproval, represents a step awny
1141111~lllI’ytclling and toward synthesizing because it embodies a persuasivl’
l’v,rllI.11 iOIl.
1111’111″I he truth” because they havelearned to see texts statically, as descriptiOI1\
III II’Uths, instead of as arguments. Shirley did not understand that nonfictiol)
1I’\f~ I’XiSI as arguments in rhetorical contexts. “After all,” she reasoned, “how
“III (11Il’ argue about the date of a battle or the sizes of armies?” Churchill,
Irmvevcl’, described the battle in mucb more detail than Shirley’s other S()UrCl’~,
,IPP,I I’l’II1Iy because he wished to persuade his readers to take pride in England’~
11.lditioll of military achievement. Guizot and Guizot de Witt, on the Othl’l’
Itulld, said very little about the battle (beyond describing it as “a 1110n()I()Il()II.~
.lIld 1:lIlll’lllable repel ition of the disasters of CI’I’l’Y ;111<1Poil icr~" 13971) bl'en 11M'
tllI'Y ",tw Ihl' I~ritish invasion as a sneaky wily to lolki' aliv
IWlollIW 1)1 1I0YI’I did 111111(‘,I,1l hl’l III 1111.1 11111111111
1111It Ih,l[ disagree, I 0111111’1’1IIllIh ,Iskl’d, “‘IIIW vnn sources dis,I!!,I’l'(‘ III riil h-r-
I’llt ways? After ,111, 111l’n”” uulv pili ,llId lOll.” Students expect tcxthooks :lnd
other .uuhorirativc sources vuhcr 10 tell them the truth (i.e., facts) or to cxprevs
,III opinion with which they may agree or disagree. Mary’s treatment of the
loot hall coverage reflects this belief, as does Charlie’s surprise when he found
Ih,lI even his most comprehensive sources on the Kent State killings omitted
u’rLlin facts, such as interviews with National Guardsmen. Students’ desire for
tt IIIh leads them to use a collating approach whenever possible, as Shirley did
(i f. Appendix A), because students believe that the truth will include all of the
I.lll~ and will reconcile all conflicts. (This belief may be another manifestation
01 the knowledge-telling strategy [Bereiter and Scardarnalia, Psychology 1 in
which students write down everything they can think of about a topic.) When
lIInflicts cannot be reconciled and the topic does not admit a pro or con stance,
“t udcnts may not know what to say. They may omit the material altogether,
uuludc it without comment, as Shirley did, or jumble it together without any
plan for building an argument.
linding the main idea and learning content-allow her to agree or disagree. SIll’
needs a technique for reading texts in ways that give her something mort 10
‘,Iy, :1 technique for constructing more complex representations of texts thai
.rllow room for more sophisticated writing goals. She also needs strategies Ior
.ru.ilyzing her reading that allow her to build original arguments.
.uion. A convenient tool for dunking about this concept is Kinneavy’s triangular
dllll!,r,1m of the rhetorical situation. Kinneavy, analyzing Aristotle’s description
“I rhetoric, posits that every communicative situation has three parts: a speaker/
wrilcr (the Encoder), an audience (the Decoder), and a topic (Reality) (19),
Althollgh all discourse involves all three aspects of communication, a given
tYlw of discourse may pertain more to a particular point of tile triangle tl1an to
Iltl’ olhers, e.g., a diary entry may exist primarily to express the thoughts of thl’
Wl’ller (the Encoder); an advertisement may exist primarily to persuade a readl’l
(Ihl’ Decoder). Following Kinneavy, Iposit particular goals for each corner of tlw
1I1,1Ilgle. Thus, tile primary goal of a writer doing writer-based discoLlrse such
II~ :1 diary might be originality and self-expression; primary goals for reader
h,l’cd discourse such as advertising might be persuasion; prinlary goals for ropiL
h,m’d discourse such as a researched essay might be accuracy, completeness, and
1II,Istery of subject matter. Since all three aspects of the rhetorical situation arl’
PII’stllt and active in any communicative situation, a primarily referential lext
\llch :lS Churchill’s The Bini; o( IJri/ail1ll1f1Y have a persuasive purpose nnd may
dl’l)l’lld for some of its cn’dihrlll), 011 l’I’;ldl’r,’ f’ll11iliariry with the author. ‘rill’
In III “riwlorical reading,” 1111’11(I.. t 11.1,1′ ‘1I1d Plower), meanS teachjn~ srlldl’lIls
In rl’lId n texi ns n I11l’Ssngl’ Will Il) ‘,111111’11111’III “”111l’hody for:l I’l’:1S01l. SIIIIII’},
M.II y, ,lilt! Cl1:IrliL’ [1fT pi oh,lhl) 1’1 10 I” I 01 II • I’, “I I111’1orien I persu;l:-.iOIl III 111111
IH,Idl’llIil l’OIII,’xl’. ‘l’Ill’Y 111.1) III III 1111′ I, 11111d III oI!lply Ihi .. Ihillkllig III ”
11l11~11()1I”lllltldl’llh\’I,lIl’W,’VIII It l.llIIII’ III \111–1(11),
II’PI’I’~l’lll:1Iions of :1writ ing task. ‘l’lu- 0lll’l,III\I’ HII,d, ill Shirley’s :llld Aliu’\ “I’
pro.H..ht·s. 10 the term p:l.per look quue lIilll’I(’11I when mapped onto the POIIII'”
~)Il the triangle. If we think of Shirley and Ahll’ .IS Encoders, the topic as 1{1′.11
uy, and 1)1:,Boyer as the ~ecoder, we can sec that for Shirley, being an EIK’olll’l
means tl’YI,ngto be credible; her relationship to the topic (Reality) involve ,I
goal of lISlI1,gaU, of the subject matter; and her relationship to the Decode:
lIl~olves an implied goal of telling a complete story to a reader whom Shirk-,
thinks of as an examiner-to use the classic phrase from the famous book h,
Britton ct ~I.-i,e” a reader who wants to know if Shirley can pass an eX,1111
Oil the subJ,ect of the Battle of Agincourt. For Alice, however, being an Encode.
means having a goal of saying something new; the topic (Reality) is a resource
10 be used; and the Decoder is someone who must be persuaded that Aliu’\
idcns have merit, Varying task representations do not change the dimensiOI1″ oj
thc rhetorical situation: the Encoder, Decoder, and Reality are always preSl’1I1
But t1:e way a writer represents the task to herself does affect the ways rhl”
shc thl.nks about those dimensions-and whether she thinks about them at :111.
Ihc sources as well as to design the paper. Although teachers have prob:lhly
.llways ~no~n tbat expert readers use such strategies, the concept of rhetori
cal readll1g IS new, to the Jjterature. Haas and Flower have shown that CXIWII
rcaders lise rhetor~cal strategies “to account for author’s purpose, context, and
dfect on the audience”, to recreate or infer the rhetorical situation of IIIl’
Icxt” (176; d, also Bazerman). These strategies, used in addition to fOl’mulol
ing main points and paraphrasing content, helped the readers to understand .1
II’Xr more completely and more quickly than did readers who concentrated t’\
l’IlIsiv~ly on ,cOl~tent, As Haas and Flower point out, teaching students to rl’:HI
::IH:torJc,ally ISd,lfficult, They ,suggest that appropriate pedagogy might indlld,’
‘.III’l’~t Il1Stl’LlctlOn. .’ . modelIng, and. , ,encouraging students to become COli
~ll’P Illlgl)! b? to,teac~ students a set of heuristics based on the three aspects 01
IhI’ l’OII1IllUl1lcatlve tnangle. Using such questions could help students set gC)’ll~
1(11 tI,l’ir reading. ‘
11’\I, Ihc Decoder is the student reader, and Reality is the subject matter. Readel’f.
III.ly wl1sider only one point of the triangle at a time asking such questions 0….
“\XIh~) nre you (i,e” the authOr/Encoder)?” or “What ~re the important featl~n”
III Ihls text?” They may consider two aspects of the rhetorical situation ill ,I
~1I~glcquestion,’ e.g”, “Am r in your intended (primary) audience?”; “Whar do I
Ihlllk about, thiS tOPIC?”; “What context affected your ideas and presentation?”
Othl’1′ q,lIestiol1s would involve all three points of the triangle, e,g” “Whal :11′(‘
you ~(‘Iylng to help me with the problem you aSSlime I hnve?” or “What rexllI.11
tll’vlel’s have yOll used to manipulate my responsd” A~killg such questions giVI’~
~tlllk’nlS n W:ly of formulating goals relalill)~ to IHIlI’041’ .I~well as content.
“Am I in )10111’ imclldt’d :llldil’l1t’e?” .,111’111111111 1111I “”tllIl’d 111,11Chlll’l hill
II; R,·:tliIY question “”l h .1’ “\XIh.ll context affected your ideas nud P’t’S\’1I
t,IIIIIII?”-she might 11111h.iv« Ignored Churchill’s remark, “A!I I~~C”‘(’11.lIlIt”
II\l1I1I’I1S, Bovcs, Bcrhcncourt] arc well known to oU,r,gcneratlOn. (40.3). A..
II was, she missed Churchill’s signal that he was writmg to survivors of the
l-ir …1World War, who had vainly hoped that it would be a war to end all wars,
II xhirlcy had used an Encoder-Decoder-Reality question-such as U~hat are
Villi saying to help me with the problem you assum: ,r have?:’-she might haw
understood that the authors of her sources were wrtting to different readers for
dllkrent reasons, This understanding might have given her something to say.
Whl’n I gave Shirley’s source texts to freshmen studen,ts, ask:d ,them to usc ,thc
m.uerial in an original argument, and taught them this heuristic for rhetorical
rcading, I received, for example, papers that warned undergraduatcs about
11.11ional pride as a source of authorial bias in history texts, ,
h(‘~'(llIseof the seemingly intransigent nature of facts. Like many p:ople, Shlrlcy
1ll’lievcs that YOllcan either agree or disagree with issues and opmlOllS, but yOLl
1,111only accept the so-caUed facts, She believes that facts are what you learn
Imm textbooks, opinions are what you have about clothes, and argum,enrs
,11’\’ what you have with your mother when you want to stay out late at l1Ighr .
“‘hirley is not in a position to disagree with the facts about the battle (e,g” “No,
I Ihink the French won”), and a rhetorical analysis may seem at first to offer
IIlinil11al rewards (e,g., “According to the Arab, Jewish, and Chinese calendars
till’ dntc was really .. ,”). , ,
“”‘l’nriaily the same kind of statement: they are claims, ~I~ce ~derstands Ih.1I
tlw only essential difference between a fact and an opll1lOn 1S how they ,Ill
Il'(dved by an audience. (This discussion is derived from Toulmin’s lDodl’~ (II
,III :lrgument as consisting of claims proved with data and backed by cthll.t1
II.,it11Scalled warrants. According to Toulmin, any aspect of an argument 1lI,1)
III’ qucstioned by the audience and must then be supported with f~rther aq!,lI
IIWIlt.) 1n a rhetorical argument, a fact is a claim that an audience will accep,t as
Iwillg true without requiring proof, although they may ask for an ,explanation,
1\11 opinion is a claim that an audience will not accept as true ~Ithout proof,
,I III I which, after the proof is given, the audience may well deCide ~as only n
limired truth, i.e” it’s true in this case but not in other ~ases. An a~dlence may.
,11,0 decide that even though a fact is unassailable, the lI1terpretatlon or use 01
tlw fact is open to debate, ,
lll’ilish army at Agincollrr; these IIl1mbers, which must have b,ccn estllnnrl’ ….
Wl’I’Cclaims masquerading ,1~LUI.” \ltidl’y did not under~ta~d thiS, She,thollght
th,1I disngrcemcnt signifil’d 1’11111,WIlI·II·.I’ II pl’ohably s,Igntf1ed rhcto~’lcal pur
pn~(‘, The prol);’lble rcnSl)1I th,11 II”, (‘111/111~”,IVI’:l I’dnll~ely large Cl>t,lm;’t~·1(11
thl’ F,II~\li~h:ll’llly ::tlld do 111111111111111111111.”,,, Ilj tl1l’ h’cllch tll’1l1yIS,SO thllt
1111’11’FI’l’tllh n”HIl’I” would Iliid tlll 1\1111II \ II 1111)”·,….H’I 10 ;l~.I.\.pl.1 1~\·WI..I..
(1III1lhtll\ 1’\’I.IIIVI’ly”‘”I,tll,’ 1111111’1111till 0111 til till’ FlIgl” ..h .11 Illy .llld III~
Ikf!llv ‘-11111k’) could ll”l’;tll’ an .ll’gllllH”111 .Ihfllli 11u- B.. uh- of AgllllOlIII, ,111
Ill’nlrd 10 undcrxrnnd ihat,cvt:n ill IIl’l “1\1111\ 1,'”hllllk …,lhe soculled loll I..”II
l!.III1IS t luu mayor may not be supporu-d, d.1I111., 11I,llk’ by writers who Will k 111
:t l’t’rtnil~ politicnl climate for a particular nudicncc. She may, of course, Ill’V”1
Il\HIl Ihis truth unless Dr. Boyer teaches her rhetorical theory and uses IIII’
I’l’sc,nrch paper as a chance for Shirley to practice rhetorical problem-solving,
10 fin~ll11al~lideas and Important facts; success in these tasks usually hinges (!II
ugrccmg With the teacher about what the text says. Such study skills form ,III
essential basis for doing reading-to-write tasks. Obviously a student can only
lise sources to build an argument if she can first read the Sources accurnn-l,
(c.L Brown. and Palincsar; Luftig; Short and Ryan). However, synthesizing tns”‘,
often require that readers not accept the authors’ ideas. Baker and Brown h,IVI’
~()int:d out that people misread texts when they blindly accept an Olurhol\,
Ideas IJ1stead of considering a divergent .interpretation. Yet if we want studl.’IlI,
10 learn to build original arguments from texts, we must teach them the sktll,
needed to create divergent interpretations. We must teach them to think ab()~11
facts and opinions as claims that are made by writers to particuJar readers 101
particular reasons in particular historical contexts.
persuasive analYSIS.Alt~ough no r~search exists as yet to suggest that teachilll\
~tLlcients t? read rhetoncally wtlllIDprove their writing, I have seen its effl’ll
~n successive drafts of students’ papers. As mentioned earlier, r11etor.ical read
fllg allowed a student to move from simply summarizing and evaluating hl’!
“‘(lllr~es on local c~verage of the championship football game to constructillj\
n rn tiOna I~ for artIcles that covered tbe fans rather than the game. Rhet()1″1
cllJ analYSIS e~abled another student to move from summarizing his sourCl”
10 undersr:,lI1dmg why each report about the Kent State shootings necessarily
(‘xpressed a bias of some kjnd.
Il’d1J1lque for producll1g sophIsticated arguments. Even when students rend
“,H’I.rsOLJr.cesrhetorically, the~ tend merely to report the results of this annly
‘II> III their essays. Such wntmg appears to be a college-level version of till’
k”owledge-telling strategy described by Bereiter and Scardamalia (Psychology)
,lilt! ,~)ay be, as the~ suggest, the product of years of exposure to pedagogical
pr,lClices that enshnne the acquisition and expression of in.formation witholll
n context or purpose.
l:ltion of th~ir source t~x:s, Ihav~ taught them the concept of the rhetorical gap
alld s.ome sunple heuflstlC questions for thinking about gaps. Gaps were fir~1
descrtbed by lser as unsaid material that a reader must supply to infer frOIll
,) text. McCormick expanded the concept to include gaps between lhe lexi
and the reader; such gaps could involve di.screpanciL’1. of vnlues, social conVt’!l
lions, .language, or any other matter that readers 11111’1lo” ..it!t:r. If we: ,lpply
Ihe concept of gaps to Kinneavy’s triangle, Wl’ ‘i’i’ 111111 III II’lIdi,,!\, fOI’l’Xill1lpll’,
not ,I nu-mber 01 1111′,111111111′, 1111111.1, tI ,11II 1t(·lIl'(‘. Shirley ft.11 IIlIO such ,I fI,IP,
“”ullwr !!,ap can OCllI1 1ll’1\\1″‘” lilt’ I)n min Reality corners when ,1 It’,Hlel
tI”,11;fL’CSwith or docs 1101 1111111,,,1.11111 tltl’ text. A third gap Ct11~OCClIrIWI ween
tlli’ l’ncodcr-Reality points 01 the triangle if the writer has misrepresented (II’
misuudcrstood the material. The benefit of teaching this concept is thai when
.1 student thinks about a writer’s rhetorical stance, she may ask “Why docs he
think that way?” When a student encounters a gap, she may ask, “Whal effect
tloe., it have on the success of this communication?” The answers to both qucs
nons give students original material for their papers. . . .
Il/ Britain during the 1930s, when Hitler was rearming Germany and w!1cn the
Hritish governmenr and most of Churchill’s readers ardently favored d~.sarl11(1-
mcut, Had she understood the rhetorical orientation of the book, which was
puhlished eleven years after the end of World War II, she might ha.ve argued
tlt,lt Churchill’s evocation of past military glories would have been mflamma
lory ill the 1930s but was highJy acceptable twenty years later. A gap b.etwee~l
tlH’ reader and the text (Decoder-Reality) might stimulate a reader to lllvestl-
g,lIL’ whether or not she is the only person having this problem; a gap be~wecl1.
other readers and the sources may motivate an adaptation or explanatl?n o~
lilt. tl1t1terial to a particular audience. Shirley might have adapted the GUlzOts
pl’rspcctive on the French civil war fo~ Ame~ican re~ders. A gap b~tweel1 the
,1I”hor and the material (Encoder-Reality) might motivate a refut~tlon. .
writing goals. That is, they may need to learn to tJ:ink of the paper, not as a I’l’
h,lsh of the available material, but as an opportumty to teach someone, to SOIVI’
~()lI1eOl1C’Sproblem, or to answer someone’s question. ~h.e most s~lient ql1esti()l1~
for reading source texts may be “Who are you (the ongmal audience of Decod
(‘I’ll)?”; “What is your ques60n or problem with this to~ic?”; and “How haw I
(I he Encoder) used these materi~ls to answer your ques,~lon o~,~~lve y~ur pr,~)~l
kill?” More simply, these ques[Jons may be learned as Why, How, and So
Wh,lt?” When Shirley learns to read sources as telling not the eternal truth ,but ;\
1I’II1hto a particular audience and when she learns to think of texts as existl1lg to
‘!lIve problems, she will find it easier to think of things to say. . ‘
“~lll11ent that required her to analyze an issue and express an opl~lOn on It, LIS
11l~ 1WO cor).fljcting source texts, an iJlterview, and personal materIal as sources.
U,lJ)g rhetorical reading strategies, this girl discovered a gap betwee.n AIfred
M;lrbaise, a high school princ.ipal who advocates mandatory ~rug testing of all
hi~h school students, and students like those he would be testmg:
III,II
dm’., 1101t.lkl’ 11110cousidcration 1111′ 11′.1~””‘,II Ir\ 1,”I~ ,II ru.illy uvc d,ug” ‘1(ld”y
Ilw xocinl environment is so drosll~,III)’ dllli’lI’lIl dr.11Murbnise cannot IIlId\’1
st.rud .1 kid’s morality, and that is why hl’ WI ill” 1″0111 NIiCh a fatherly bill clisuuu
point of view.
thaI Marbaise seems by his age and background to be fatherly and distnnt?”
Unless the writer/reader thinks to ask this question, she will have difficulty
writing a coherent evaluation of Marbaise’s argument.
their topics can help us to understand the perennial problem of plagiarism
S.ol11eplagiarism d~rives, I think, from a weak, nonrhetorical task representa
lion. If students believe they are supposed to reproduce source material in IIll’II
papers, or if they know they are supposed to say something original but have
no rhetorical problem to solve and no knowledge of how to find problem-
that they Call discuss in their sources, it becomes difficult for them to avoid
plagiarizing. The common student decision to buy a paper when writing IIll’
assignment seems a meaningless fill-in-the-blanks activity (d. Schwegler and
Shamoon) becomes easily understandable. Because rhetorical reading leads 1o
discoveries about the text, students who use it may take more interest in thl’lI
research papers.
onglnal argument, knows how to read analytically, and has found things to ~a}
nbout the Battle of Agincourt. Are her troubles over? Will she now create th.1I
1\ paper that she, yearns to write? Probably not. Despite her best intenriol1N,
Shirley will probably write another narrative/paraphrase of her sources. Why?
Because by now, the assignment asks her to do far more than she can handl(‘
ill ,1 single draft. Shirley’S task representation is now so rich, her set of goals S(1
many, that she may be unable to juggle tbem all simultaneously. Moreover, till’
l”Ill’lOricnl reading technique requires students to discover content worth wril
1111\ nboLiL and a rhetorical purpose for writing; the uncertainty of mal1agil1~
~lIlh:1 .di!Scovery task when a grade is at stake may be too much for Shirlcy.
1I1,ly I’equlre students to do a familiar subtask, such as reading sources, al a
higher level of difficulty, e.g., longer sources, more sources, a more difficult
lopic. Second, they may require students to do new subtasks, such as bllild
Il1g l10tCSinto an original argument. Such tasks may require task managcmenl
‘ikills, especially planning, that students have never developed and do not know
how LOattempt. The insecurity that results from trying a complex new rusk III
:1 high-st:.lkes situati.on is increased when students are asked to discove.r a prob
lell1 worth writing about because such tasks send students out on a trC(lSlll’l’
hUllt WiLhno guarantee that the treasure exists, thaI Lhey will recognize it Whl’l1
Ihq lind ie, or thnt when they find itthey willlw :lhll’ to build it into a. coh<:rt'llI
.ll'gllll1l'lll. The pnpcr on Marbaise quotl'd nhllv(' l"III1I'd ,I grnue of l) beCflll'i('
thl' wl'itn could not lise her ..hetorienl il1"II',hl' I" hulld 1111,llglltlll'nt J)I'l'M'IHI'd
lrol1~ til Mnrbmse Pt”'”I1,I, ~IIC’ did 11(11lollow through by t.’valu:1l1I1glilt’ g,lJ”
III h” p~rspectivc th.i: 1I111″hl.lIkd rhc probable success of his P”Ol!,I’:1IH.
her writing goals and even plan (i.e., outline) a paper before she rends till’
‘OllI’CCS.The rhetorical reading strategy, by contrast, requires writers ro di~
rover wl:at is worth writing about and to decide how to say it as or after they
read Lhclr. source~. Th~ ~trategy requires writers to change their content goals
.ind to ~dJust ~helr v:ntmg plans as their understanding of the topic develops.
It requires writers, rn Flower’s term, to “construct” their purposes for writ
Illg as well as the content for their paper (for a description of constructi ve
pla.nning, see Flower, Schriver, Carey, Haas, and Hayes). In Flower’s words,
wrrt~rs who construct a purpose, as opposed to writers who bring a prcdc-
tcrm.ln.e? .purpose to a task, “create a web of purposes … set goals, toss lip
possibilities … create a multidimensional network of information … a weh
~)_f purpose .. ‘. a bubbli~lg stew of various mental representations” (53]-32).
I he complex indeterminacy of such a task may pose an intimidating chal-
lenge to students who have spent their lives summarizing main ideas and
reporting facts.
in.. subtas~, e.g., repeating material about the Battle of Agincourt, at the expense
of stfllggl1l1g with an unfamiliar subtask sllch as creating an original argul11cnl.
She may even deliberately simplify the task by representing it to herself as calling
only for something that she knows how to do, expecting that Dr. Boyer will ::H_
cepe the paper as close enough to the original instructions. My students do thl”
frequently. When students decide to write a report of theix reading, they can ,11
least be certain that they will find material to write about.
. Beca~lse of the. limits of attentional memory, not to mention those caused Ii)’ II
lI1expenence, WrIters Call handle only so many task demands at a time. Thll~,
paper~ produced by seemingly inadequate task representations may well Iw
essentially rough drafts. What looks like a bad paper may well be a preliminnl’y
step, a way of meeting certain task demands ill order to create a bas.is for
Lhinking about new ones. My students consistently report that they need to
marshal. al.1of their ideas and text knowledge and get that material down on
the page (i.e., tell their knowledge) before they can think about developing
an argument (i.e., transform their knowledge). If Shirley’S problem is that shc
ha~ shelved certai~ task demands in favor of others, Dr. Boyer needs only to
pOI.nt out what Shirley should do to bring the paper into conformity with the
(l~slgnl11ent and offer Shirley a chance to revise.
wntlllg ras~s can create a tremendous hLlI’dle for students because so Illnny
of them bcltcve tbat thcy should he able 10 write their paper in a single dra (I.
SOl11estudents think thnL i( lI1l’Y ~III1’1 do till’ paper in one draft thnt means tl1.11
sOJ11l’rhing is wrong w.ith th~’lll a …WI 111’1”’1, Ill’ wil It IIll’ :1ssignment, or wilh lIS IIlI
giving the assignment. O(It’n, “;ilt I, ~llIrllllh \\’1I111′,llI 10 .heir dr:1(1~with ;)111\1’1′
I” .uul 1>,lylll~Ihal Ihey can’t do thl’ ,1~~lglllllllit.
~()lIn.:l.’s’ opinions on mandatory drug te.,tlllg, l lcr second draft contained tlH’
rhetorical analysis quoted above, but presented the material in a scram hied III
der and did not build the analysis into an argument, Only in a third draft w.i-,
ihi …student able to make her point:
turn away fr0111 reality, He fails to realize that drug testing will not answer their
quest ions, ease their frustrations, or respond to their cries for attention, but will
merely further alienate himself and other authorities fr0111helping kids deal with
their real problems.
the source’s position matter?” If we pace our assignments to allow for OUI
~Iudcnts’ thoughts to develop, we can do a great deal to build their confidence
in their writing (Terri raised her D+ to an A). If we treat the researched ess,l}-
,IS a sequence of assignments instead of as a one-shot paper with a single dill’
date, we can teach our students to build on their drafts, to use what they C;111
do easily as a bridge to what we want them to learn to do. In this way, we call
improve our students’ writing habits, More importantly, however, we can help
our students to see themselves as capable writers and as active, able, problem
solvers. Most importantly, we can use the sequence of drafts to demand th.u
our students demonstrate increasingly sophisticated kinds of analytic and ,.Iw
toricn I proficiency,
ill rich and interesting ways, They can help students to set up complex gonl
-n ructures (Bereiter and Scardamalia, “Conversation”), They offer students
“W1Y ways to think about their reading and writing texts. These tools, in other
wOI’ds, encourage students to work creatively.
,I ll’l’.l1ive paper, she has found a constructive solution that is new to her and
“,llIl h 01her pcople can use, a solution to a problem that she and other pc()pk
..It,lil’, Creativity is an inherently rhetorical quality, if we think of it as thoughl
!v,ldlng 10 solutions to problems and of problems as embodied in qucsti()l1~
IIt,ll pl’oplc ask about situations, the researched essay offers infinite posloi
hdtll(‘i-o, Viewed in this way, a creative idea answers a question that the audi
~’IlCC or any single reader wants answered, The question could be, “Why dill
I kllry V win the Battle of Agincourt?” or, “How can student readers prOll’l I
t1wt1lsclvcs against nationalistic bias when they study history?” or any of :I
IhOllsnnd olhcr questions. If we teach our Shirleys to see themselves as sellnl
.1l’S who work to find answers to problem questions, and if we rcach thl’tll
10 St·t 1′(‘;lding alld writing goals for thcmsl’lvl’S Ihilt will nllow them to rhink
lOilstt’lIl’livt’ly, we will be doing thc mOSI l’x\iltltl’o we,,1 IllItt IC:1chcrs mil do.
11111’1ul’illg t’I’l,:ltivilY.
from to
I WiI1stonChurchill, A History of the English-Speaking Peoples, Volume I: The Birt II
M. Robinson, p. 145.
l\tllI~. II t.w,h.tlt. I’ \’/1(‘/1NIl/,It,’ 1 )/11,11′ “,” ‘”~ 11″ II, /11111′ 1′,”, ,’.,\. 1′,IIwi Ilt’t·~(·llll·dIII till’ Ailil II
Space” (CARS) Model of
Research introductions’
JOHN SWALES
“moves” that almost all research introductions make. We’re providing a sum-
mary of Swales’s model here as a kind of shorthand to help you in both reading
research articles and writing them. Identifying these moves in introductions to
the articles you read in, this book will help you understand the authors’ projects
better from the outset. When you write your own papers, making the same
moves yourself will help YOLl present your own arguments clearly and convinc-
ingly. So read through the summary now, but be sure to return to it often f
In this move, the author sets the context for his or her research, providing
necessary background on the topic. This move includes one or more of the
following steps:
t hat the research about to be reported is part of a lively, significant, or well-
established research area. To claim centrality the author might write:
“Knowledge of X has great importance for … ”
t hough less in tbe physical sciences than in the social sci-
l’l1CCS and the humanities.
pr:lll k’l’~, 01″ phenomena in rhc field. FOI’ (“,11111’11
1 11111111111111’lIl: 1 ‘Jllll
h uuhor relates what has been found on the topic and who found it. For
“”1’11’:
1\,,111.Illhll~()n and Morgan claim that the biographical facts have been rnis
Itl.lIlll1f’ 10children early and often seems to have a positive long-term corrcla
11111111″ I1.11 Ill’ in the sentence, as in the first example abo~e) or non-integra!
It “liI/I (\ iting the author’S name in parentheses only, as In the sec?J1d .uul,h,,” I “.lIllpIeS above). The use of different types of verbs (e.g., reportt11~ 11£’:’/11′
Ii’ II ,I~ “vhuws” or “claims”) and verb tenses (past, present perfect, or present)
1111 ~ ,II 1’0′” disciplines.
III 1111.. 11IOW, the author argues that there is an o~~n “niche” in t,he ~X”IIII):
r I In h,,, ~pOl’l’ that needs to be filled through additional resea rch. The nut IHII
III I h”lh”~h ” niche in one of four ways:
I Itl 1111hili refutes or challenges earlier research by making a counter c1:1iII1o
1111 , SlllIlpl,’:
I” IIII’II~II,III’~ ihetr method to be flawed,”
II” ,llItlIIII t!l-lI\ol1strarcs that earlier research docs not sufficiently :Hldlt,~~ 1111
I ,,11111\ “III’Slioll” or problems. For example:
II” 111111111 .I~I,~qlH·~II(It1., ,IIHIIII PII\1I111″ ‘” 1′,II,It, ~11)\)’,I, .. tillg Ih.11 ,lddillllll,t1
‘I I 11111 1H’I,d·, III Ill’ dlll1l’, hll 1’\111111’11
11111″”0″”. Illdlltill1g … ”
cxa IIIpic:
needed.”
In this move, the author turns the niche established in Move 2 into the research
space that he or she will fill; that is, the author demonstrates how he or she
will substantiate the counter-claim made, fill the gap identified, answer the
question(s) asked, or continue the research tradition. The author makes this
move in several steps, described below. The initial step (IA or IB) is obligatory,
though many research articles stop after that step.
January 2009.”
I IlIlIiI”d III I~wly Itkt’ly 10 ask you to engage In another kind of readinq 1(‘tl!~”1(:
II It 11I’.IIt’d by yow cltlssmates. Ihis kind of reading will as~ for a diffcIL’111~nl !l
, . hid that we’ve included 11(‘1(‘ d ~illll tVOlII 1″‘1’1III1PIOVP hiS 01 her text. To e p you 0 •
I II II..III.III···.wntinq